Director's Cut

by Alton Gansky

  “Take two steps back—”

  “Hold it.” I recognized the voice. It sounded wonderful. West.

  “Mayor?”

  “Yes.”

  West stepped forward, looked at me, and looked inside the car. “You can lower your hands.”

  “That’s Jerry you have on the ground,” I said.

  He smiled at that. “They’re clear. Let him up,” West said.

  His smile eroded when I said, “Catherine said there’s someone injured in the backyard. She said it’s Andy.”

  “Andy Buchanan?”

  “Yes.”

  Jerry rounded the car. West eyed him sternly. “Get them out of here, Doc.”

  “That’s what I was trying to do.”

  “Well, try again.” He looked at the other officers. “There may be a man down. The perp may still be on the grounds. Watch each other. Let’s go.” West moved forward and to the side of the house.

  “Come on,” Jerry said. “We’ll have to walk. The police have me boxed in.” Again he took our arms and started walking us down the drive. I glanced over my shoulder and saw West and two officers make their way into the shadows, guns drawn and at the ready.

  Chapter 21

  Andy Buchanan was dead.

  The twenty-seven-year-old son of Catherine’s producer Charles Buchanan lay in repose upon a deck chair on the upper terrace overlooking the pool, his arms and legs akimbo. His brown hair was askew and his blue eyes gazed over the distant ocean as if counting the moonlight jewels left on the undulating surface. Earrings still hung from their holes. He wore black jeans, black sneakers, and a black T-shirt.

  He seemed at peace and the illusion would have been more convincing if not for the ugly round hole in his forehead. The other chairs were scattered about, and leaning against the terrace wall were the landscaper’s tools I had seen before.

  I walked from the terrace, up the stone steps to the patio where Catherine waited with Jerry and one of the officers. West escorted me.

  “You okay?” His voice was soft and kind.

  “No. I feel sick.”

  “If you’re going to toss your cookies, I’d prefer that you not do it on my crime scene.”

  “I don’t mean that kind of sick. I feel . . . stunned. Two murders at Catherine’s home. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything like this.”

  “It’s not normal, that’s for sure. Speaking of things not being normal . . .” He stopped while we were still out of earshot of those on the patio. “How well do you know your cousin?”

  “That’s an odd way to back into a question. What do you mean ‘speaking of things not being normal’?”

  “It was a poor way to begin. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you saying that Catherine isn’t normal?” The question irritated me.

  “I’m just asking how well you know her.”

  “Fairly well. I’m older than she so we didn’t pal around as kids. The family would get together at holidays and birthdays. Why?”

  “There’s a reason I wanted you to see the body,” West said. He looked back at the lifeless Andy.

  “You said you wanted me to see things so I could confirm your identification. To be honest, I thought that was an odd statement. You don’t need my confirmation. You talked to him earlier today.”

  “It was all I could come up with,” he admitted. “You’ve spent a fair amount of time with Catherine these last two or three days, right?”

  I agreed.

  “Has she been acting weird?”

  “Weird. Is that a police term? What do you mean weird?” I felt defensive.

  “Mayor, I know all this has been rough on you, but it hasn’t been a picnic for me either. I’d appreciate a little support here. Now, has she been acting strange?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed. She’s been a little reserved, but I’d expect that from someone who finds a dead body in her pool. Her schedule is full, and I’m getting the idea that she’s under a lot of pressure.”

  “But nothing else you’d categorize as being unexpected or out of the norm?”

  “Not really. What are you getting at?”

  “You saw the blood on her dress?” He started to look at her but caught himself.

  “Of course. It’s hard to miss.”

  He blinked a few times as if waiting for me to see the obvious. When it was clear I wasn’t putting two and two together, he asked, “Where did it come from?”

  “Andy’s body, I suppose—” I looked back at the corpse in the chair. There had been very little blood. As with the first victim, there had been an entrance wound but no exit wound. A small streak of crimson ran from the young man’s forehead to his nose, but that was all. The rivulet of red didn’t look smeared. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”

  “I plan to,” West said. “I plan to ask her several things.”

  “You don’t think she had anything to do with this, do you? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? My job is to keep an open mind about everything I see and everyone I meet. Right now I have a young woman who lives alone in a gigantic house and has had two people—both of whom were closely associated with her—murdered on her property. A script goes missing and the replacement copy contains an accurate rendering of your private conversation with her. I’ve been over the house with a surveillance expert and we could find no listening devices. That means that someone was in the house with you listening to your words, or—”

  “Or one of us wrote it down.”

  “Exactly. And both of you told me that Catherine searched the house for Ed Lowe.”

  “I doubt she checked the closets,” I protested.

  “Do you think that someone hidden in a closet could have heard your conversation in the living room?”

  “Maybe. It’s possible.”

  “But not likely.” He gazed into my eyes and I saw a sadness tucked behind a steely determination. “Did you see her first movie?”

  “No. My parents did. They were very proud. The movie came out at a bad time for me. I kept meaning to go see it.”

  “The director’s cut just came out on DVD.”

  “Director’s cut?”

  “The version the director intended. Movies are often edited after the director is done, usually to shorten the running time or to remove something that might be offensive.”

  “Since when is Hollywood concerned about being offensive?”

  “You’ve got a point there, but my understanding is that some scenes may get cut to avoid a possible lawsuit, avoid copyright infringement, or simply because the producers don’t like it. The point is, a director’s cut will have all the scenes the director thinks belong.” He paused. “I got my hands on one of the DVDs and watched it last night—or early this morning, I should say.”

  “And?”

  “The movie is a mystery/suspense, a woman-in-peril kind of thing. There’s a scene in it in which the bad guy is seen loading a .38 revolver. He’s loading it with Glaser blue-tips. These DVDs often have extras to entice consumers to buy a movie they’ve already seen at the theater. Some, like this one, have a director’s commentary. The movie plays and the director does a voice-over explaining interesting facts about the scene, funny stories, problems, and the like.”

  “And the director mentions the scene was cut,” I said, anticipating where West was headed.

  “Exactly. The producers nixed the scene because they thought it slowed the story down. Here’s my point. In the theater release of the movie, no mention is made of Glaser blue-tip bullets. The writer intended it to be a key factor, but all references to the bullet type were edited out. Unless you’re an avid shooter, a cop, or a gun nut, you’ve probably never heard of that particular ammunition.”

  “I had never heard of it until you mentioned it,” I said. “So you see a connection?”

  “I see a possible connection. There’s something else,” West said, lowering his voice. “You sat through the script meeting today, right?”
>
  “Much of it. I was with you in Rockwood’s office. They continued while we met.”

  “Did you get the gist of the plot?”

  I felt stupid. “Yes. It’s about a young woman who slowly loses her mind. But you can’t be saying that Catherine is living out the script. I don’t recall people being shot in the head.”

  “They are in the first movie,” West said. “In the new movie, a model is stalked by a killer who murders to get her attention. She may be pulling from both movies.”

  “How can you know so much about the new movie? You were interviewing people and not in the reading—You read the script you took for fingerprints.”

  He nodded. “I had the fingerprint people make a copy of it for me, which, by the way, was no easy task. Do you know how difficult it is to make a photocopy of yellow paper? Anyway, I read the whole thing. I also got a fresh copy from Buchanan before I left Hollywood. I made a comparison. They were identical with the exception of the added pages in Catherine’s copy.”

  “What are you going to do?” I knew I wasn’t going to like the answer.

  “I have a hundred questions, and I’m afraid some of the answers lay with your cousin.” He gave me a sorrowful stare. “I’m stretching investigative protocol here, Mayor, but I’m going to give you a heads-up. I’m going to take Ms. Anderson in for some questioning.”

  “You’re not serious. She’s a victim—”

  He raised a finger, cutting me off. “Maddy, don’t make me regret giving you advance warning. I’m doing so because she’s related to you. I’m using kid gloves here. Anyone else would have a tougher go of things.”

  “But you can’t arrest her. She’s been through too much.”

  “I didn’t say I was going to arrest her. I’m going to detain her for questioning. She won’t be under arrest, but she does have a right to an attorney. I want you to help me.”

  That angered me. “Help you do what?”

  “Advise her to cooperate.”

  I felt sick before; now I felt completely drained of strength. None of what West was suggesting seemed right, but there was logic to it. “I’m going in with her.”

  “That’s not advisable.”

  “You want my help or not?”

  His face hardened. West didn’t enjoy being manipulated any more than I did. “You make certain you don’t interfere—Madam Mayor.”

  A voice drew my attention to the patio. A new figure stood with Catherine and Jerry. “Oh, brother,” I said. “You’re life just got more complicated.” Franco Zambonelli had arrived with the finesse of an army tank.

  I followed West up the stone steps and approached the small gathering on the patio. Jerry and West exchanged hard, rigid glances. They shared a mutual dislike of each other and expressed it in the coldest professional manner.

  “Doc?” West said.

  “I can’t do an exam out here, but she insists she is unhurt.”

  Catherine stood, appearing more child than adult, her hands folded in front of her. Her lace gown was soiled with blood, the hem brown from where it had scraped the still incomplete landscaped yards. Her shoes were dirty.

  “Of course, she’s okay,” Franco said loudly. “She’s a trooper. Nothing gets her down.” He put his arm around her, and Catherine appeared to shrink before my eyes. Maybe it was the moonlight, but she looked wan, thin, and flimsy.

  “I know this has been hard on you, Ms. Anderson, but I’m going to need to ask you some questions.”

  “Can’t you see that she’s been traumatized, Officer?” Franco said. “She’s not answering any questions tonight.” He started to steer her away. “Come on, baby. I’ll take you away from all of this.”

  “Mr. Zambonelli, no one is leaving until I say so.”

  “That a fact?” Franco blurted.

  “Yes, it is a fact,” West said. I saw his jaw clench. I expected a grimace but saw a small smile.

  Franco spun around. “I don’t like being pushed around, buddy.”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to stand over there,” West said. He motioned to the corner of the patio.

  “I don’t have to stand anywhere I don’t want.”

  West took a step closer, and I took two back. So did Jerry.

  “You need to listen to the detective,” Catherine said. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “All my life, his kind has pushed me around. I know my rights. No Andy of Mayberry cop is going to treat me like a criminal. I’m just here to protect your rights, baby.”

  West maintained his humorless smile. “Please stand over there until I call for you, Mr. Zambonelli.”

  “I’m staying put, pal.” He poked West in the chest with an index finger. I cringed.

  In movement that was almost too fast for my eyes to register, West had snatched the offending hand and twisted it until Zambonelli was bent over. West jerked the man’s right arm behind him and twisted his hand in a painful-looking direction. Zam-bonelli cried out. “What are you doing? Ow. Stop. Stop.”

  The uniformed cops must have heard his cries. Four of them arrived en masse. “Hey, Tom,” West said to one of the officers. “This guy just assaulted me. How about cuffing him and putting him in the back of your car while I decide whether to press charges.”

  “I didn’t assault you.”

  “I think you did.” West handed Franco off to the other officer.

  “Was that necessary?” Catherine asked.

  “Yes, it was. There are a few other things that are necessary. I need you to come down to the station with me.”

  “Can’t you ask your questions here?” Her pale skin had gone white.

  “It would be better if we were down at the station. Scientific investigation and the medical examiner have work to do. We’ll just be in their way.”

  Catherine looked at me, pleading for help.

  “You should go,” I said. “I’ll go with you.”

  West cut me a look of disapproval but said nothing.

  “Do I have to ride in the back of a police car?”

  “I’m certain Detective West would let us drive you down,” I said. “Isn’t that right, Detective?” You asked for my help. This is my brand of helping.

  “As long as you go straight to the station.” He directed his words at me.

  A clanking caught my attention. Two men with a gurney had been led through the house to the patio. The medical examiner and crew had arrived. With them was a thin, African-American officer. She walked straight to West.

  “You requested a female officer, Detective.”

  He didn’t answer her directly. Instead, he spoke to Catherine. “This is Officer Sharon Brock. She’s going to accompany you while you change into some more comfortable clothing. I’m afraid that dress is evidence.”

  “The dress!” Catherine sputtered. “I ran out on the play. I ran off with the dress!”

  I tried to calm her. “Harold said the understudy would cover for you.”

  “She can’t. This is the only dress for that scene. I’ve ruined the play.” She began to weep. The mounting waters had topped the emotional dam. It was giving way. The dress was the last straw.

  “I’ll take care of this,” I told West. “Come on. Let’s get you changed.”

  “Mayor,” West said. “Officer Brock must go with you. It’s a chain of evidence thing.”

  “Fine, fine. Let’s go.” I walked Catherine toward her home.

  Chapter 22

  I stood in the viewing area adjacent to the interrogation room of police headquarters. The Santa Rita police department was housed in a mission-style building separated from city hall by a parking lot. Most of the rooms were austere, including the one in which I now waited. Only the foyer, the only room most of the law-abiding public saw, had any flair. Its interior was contemporary, which stood in stark contrast with the California mission exterior.

  It felt odd to stand in the narrow room, looking through a see-through mirror at Catherine, now dressed in slacks, tennis shoes, and a
gray, unmarked sweatshirt. I had seen such rooms on television but to actually be in one made me feel out of place. Jerry stood beside me. West allowed us to watch as a concession, one he gave begrudgingly. One day, I would no longer be mayor and my ability to stretch privilege would be at an end. I wondered if I could leverage the same kind of favoritism if I won the congressional election. I doubted it.

  The door to our dark room opened, then closed. Bill Webb walked in, bringing a goose bump–raising chill with him. He eyed me in a way that made it clear I had once again gotten under his skin. His face bore the same look of pain that it always did. I tried to remember the last time I saw him smile.

  Bill Webb wore the title chief of police, and he wore it proudly. Santa Rita was fortunate to have him. He ran a tight ship, played by the book, and was as dedicated a man as I have ever met. I held his abilities and his position in high regard. The man, however, was a different matter. He was honest, forthright, determined, and possessed a hundred other commendable qualities, but he irritated me beyond endurance. My only comfort was that I had the same effect on him. Over the years, we had butted heads over finances. He wanted more, and I wouldn’t give it to him. The money just wasn’t there, and he blamed me for it. Every year he’d ask for more money in the budget to hire personnel and to improve equipment; each year I gave him less than he wanted. He was never glad to see me, and I had only been glad to see him once—when he saved my life.

  I thought that formative event would change our relationship. It didn’t.

  A second after Webb entered the viewing area, Judson West entered the interrogation room. I saw Catherine stiffen and my heart melted.

  “Detective West said you’d be here,” Webb said, his voice low. “He said you’ve been helpful.”

  “I want to be here for Catherine,” I said, matching his tone. “She’s been through a lot for someone her age.”

  “It wouldn’t be any easier if she were older.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “You know Dr. Jerry Thomas, don’t you, Chief?”