Dead Winter

by William G. Tapply

  “How is Mr. Winter doing?”

  “Des? Des is okay, I guess. He seems perceptibly older each time I see him. I think he was fond of Maggie. He appeared more confused than anything. Flustered. As if God were playing dirty tricks on him.”

  “I like him.”

  “Me too. He’s had more than his share of troubles.”

  “So all these phone calls,” she said. “I guess, by comparison, they’re not that important.”

  “To the people who made them they are. This is what we have to keep in mind.”

  She nodded. “I wasn’t the one wandering into the office at one in the afternoon.”

  “When you get that article done, why don’t you take off the rest of the day?”

  “Can’t. I’ve got responsibilities.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t suggest it.”

  I went back into my office, pulled out a phone book, and tapped out the number for the Newburyport police. The guy on the switchboard put me through to Detective Fourier. “Fourier,” he said, not unpleasantly. “Can I help you?”

  “It’s Brady Coyne. I was in this morning with Marc Winter.”

  “Yeah. How you doin’?”

  “Okay. Look. I need some information.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ve got the medical examiner’s report. What’s it say about the time of death?”

  He hesitated. “That’s police business, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Oh, come off it.”

  “I don’t talk about cases with citizens.”

  “I’m hardly a citizen. I’m a lawyer. We’re in the same business. Marc Winter’s in the middle of this thing.”

  “He’s a witness, that’s all. For now. You and he’ve got no rights.”

  “I’m not talking about rights. I’m talking about professional courtesy.”

  I heard him laugh quickly. “You want courtesy, Counselor, you came to the wrong place. You want courtesy, try this. Fuck off.”

  “Now listen—”

  He had hung up on me. I replaced the receiver on its cradle and said, “Up yours.”

  I swiveled around in my chair and stared out at the smoggy Boston skyline. I couldn’t fathom Fourier’s refusal to talk with me. He had been relatively forthcoming only a few hours earlier in his office. I just needed a simple piece of information. If Maggie had died after ten o’clock on Sunday night, and if Andy Pavelich had told me the truth—and I believed she had—then Marc’s innocence seemed certain. If Maggie had died earlier than that, given Des’s vagueness, then I had to question whether Marc was using Andy for an alibi.

  Fourier had called Marc a witness. “For now,” he had added. It was logical to suspect Marc. He had cited a witness who saw Marc pull up in his truck and go directly to the pay phone at the marina. Okay. None of that excused his refusal to cooperate with me.

  I rotated my chair back to my desk and pecked out the number to the state police headquarters on Commonwealth Avenue. The receptionist transferred me to Inspector Horowitz’s secretary, who remembered me and switched me to Horowitz himself.

  “Ah, Coyne,” he said cautiously. “I infer a request for a favor.”

  An explosion sounded in my ear. “You still hooked on Bazooka?” I said.

  “I’m chewing gum, yeah.”

  “You better cut back. You’ll contract a case of TMJ.”

  “I’m trying cigarettes. Whenever I get the urge to chew, I smoke a cigarette. It’s not working, though. I can’t shake the gum habit.”

  “It’s a bitch. Look. You’re right. I need a favor.” I outlined the Marc Winter case for him. “I figure the state cops are involved somehow. Fourier’s shutting me out.”

  “That’s his prerogative.”

  “All I need is the girl’s time of death to nail down Marc’s innocence. No reason he can’t help me out.”

  “You tell him you’ve got a witness for Winter?”

  “I’m trying to avoid involving the girl. For obvious reasons.”

  Horowitz popped a bubble. “So this is just to satisfy your own mind.”

  “Right.”

  “You want to buy me lunch some time?”

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  We disconnected. I leaned back and laced my hands behind my head. There came a scratching on my door. “Come on in,” I called.

  Julie opened the door. “The light went off your phone. Got a minute?”

  “For you? Always.”

  She took the chair beside my desk and placed a sheaf of papers in front of me. “Your masterpiece. Want to look it over before I send it out?”

  I waved my hand. “No. It’s boring.”

  “I made some changes.”

  “Thanks. I trust you.”

  She shrugged and reached for the papers. I put my hand on her wrist. “You’re looking especially beautiful today,” I said. “I like your hair that way.” It was true. Julie had clear, pale skin and shiny black hair. She was letting it grow. It fell in loose folds, framing her face and accenting her cheekbones.

  She turned her face away and looked at me from under hooded lids. “Okay. What do you want?”

  “Want? Moi?”

  “Come off it, Counselor.”

  “You got me wrong, kid.”

  “Sure.”

  I grinned at her. “I want you to see if you can figure out who this Nathan Greenberg is.”

  “Oh. Is that all?”

  I shrugged. “Shouldn’t be that hard. Try the phone books.”

  “Oh, right. Simple. Supposing the guy’s from Florida or L.A. or something?”

  “More likely he’s local, right?”

  She frowned, and then she said, “I suppose so. He just didn’t sound…”

  “Jewish?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Jeez, Julie.”

  “You really want me to try to get him, huh?”

  “I’m curious,” I said. “He said it was urgent, he’d call first thing, then nothing.”

  “The man changed his mind, right?”

  I shrugged. “So humor me.”

  She twirled around and went to the door. When she got it opened she turned. “You have any idea how many Greenbergs there must be?”

  “Lots, I’ll bet.”

  “Or how many Nathans?”

  “I appreciate it.”

  She closed the door behind her, somewhat more forcefully than was necessary. Julie and I sometimes got confused over our respective roles. Sometimes I actually acted as if I were the boss.

  She usually found a way of setting me straight.

  I made a few phone calls. Charlie McDevitt was out to lunch. Shirley, his secretary, told me about her new granddaughter. I expressed awe that she could be a grandmother. She told me this was number nine. I guessed she had been a child bride. She giggled.

  I caught Kat Winter between appointments. “It was nice to see you,” she said.

  “Ditto.”

  “So tell me. Did my darling brother do in his wife?”

  “I’m pretty sure he didn’t.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Marc’s not a murderer, Kat.”

  “You know him so well.” She laughed quickly. “Anyway, Brady. I hope you’ll take Daddy fishing one day soon. He’s not going to handle this thing too well.”

  “I should be able to shake loose later in the week.”

  “Try to arrange it so we can have dinner. Swordfish’s fresh at the Grog.”

  I promised to try.

  Doc Adams was at the hospital repairing a cleft palate. Susan Petri, his unbearably sexy assistant, told me he wouldn’t be back to the office. I wondered how Doc ever got anything done around there, with Susan slinking around to distract him, or how his wife, Mary, tolerated it. Something solid in that marriage.

  So much for returning my phone calls. I glanced at my watch. A little after three. I realized I hadn’t eaten al
l day. My stomach had passed the point of hunger. A vague nausea had set in. I went over to the mini refrigerator in the corner and took out a can of Pepsi. A little jolt of sugar and caffeine would straighten me out.

  My phone buzzed. I sat at my desk and picked it up. “Mr. Horowitz is on line two,” said Julie. “Look, Brady. There are two columns of Greenbergs just in the Boston directory. Seven Nathans, plus two with N for an initial.”

  “So call ’em up.”

  She sighed. “I haven’t even looked in the suburban books.”

  “Whatever you can do.”

  “Take line two.”

  I hit the button. “What’d you come up with?” I said to Horowitz.

  “Time of death,” he said without preliminary, “estimated between ten and one. See, they take the body temperature, factor it in with the environmental temperature, compute the loss. They examine the stomach contents, and if they know when the deceased ate last—”

  “I know about this stuff,” I said.

  “—add in lividity. That’s—”

  “Yeah. How gravity pools the blood when it stops circulating.”

  Horowitz paused. “Anyway. Between ten P.M. and one A.M. That’s what they came up with.”

  “She hadn’t been dead that long when Marc found her, then.”

  “If you want to trust this estimate,” said Horowitz. “Forensic pathology’s not a very precise science. Even when they do it right. Which they don’t always do, you know.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t shatter my illusions that way.”

  “Hey,” he said. “One of the pleasures of my life, shattering illusions. Especially yours.” I heard him chuckle softly. “More to the point,” he continued, “the police will take this estimate—what the M.E. very candidly calls an estimate, and what everyone knows is crude at best—and they’ll convert it into rigorous fact. If you were at the scene of the crime at five minutes of ten holding a bloody bludgeon, you’re clear. Because the thing had to’ve happened after that. If you’ve got an alibi starting at ten-oh-five, tough shit. You’re a suspect. That’s how cops think.”

  “Which would seem to clear Marc.”

  “Assuming his girlfriend is telling the truth, and everybody’s got their times straight.”

  “I assume those things.”

  “The Newburyport cops don’t know those things. The Newburyport police don’t even know about the girl. If there was a girl.”

  “Oh, there was a girl.”

  “And if she was telling you the truth.”

  “I felt she was,” I said lamely.

  Horowitz snapped his gum. “Before ten, after ten. That’s all they’ll care about.” I heard the rustling of papers. “I talked with our officer on the case, who’s real intrigued by one thing.”

  “I’m not going to have to beg you, am I?”

  “You’re buying me lunch, I’m helping you out.” He cleared his throat. “It’s the sperm they found in the girl. It seems to explain things.”

  “Sure,” I said. “It gives Marc his motive. Cheating wife. Tried and true motive. He suspects she’s fooling around. Follows her to the boat, waits for her paramour to show up, listens while they murmur and moan and cry out in ecstasy, getting more and more pissed off, waits for the guy to leave, goes aboard, confronts Maggie. They argue. She makes reference to his diminished masculinity. Taunts him. Tells him she’s got a million lovers. He calls her a slut. Whatever. He loses it. Clobbers her. She dies. So he leaves. Changes his clothes. Goes back and calls the cops.”

  “Except for this girl you say can alibi him.”

  “Right. Fourier doesn’t know about her. So, okay. After Marc kills Maggie, he calls Andy Pavelich, goes to meet her, brings her back to the boat and pretends to discover the body. Takes his date home, goes back to the marina and calls the cops.”

  “That would fit,” said Horowitz.

  “Except for the times.”

  “Those estimates are crude.”

  “There’s something else, too, of course.”

  “Sure—”

  “The guy who screwed Maggie,” I said.

  “Naturally. That guy could’ve whacked her. Problem is—”

  “They don’t know who that guy is. And they do know who Marc is. Bird in the hand.”

  “Cops tend to think that way,” said Horowitz.

  “Well, what does your investigator say? They going to arrest Marc?”

  “Our investigator doesn’t say anything. Fourier’s the one who’s on Winter’s case. They’ve got nothing but circumstance. They can’t place your client there at the alleged time of death. No weapon. No certifiable motive. Supposition, that’s really all they’ve got. Still,” he added, “it doesn’t look good. There is this witness who saw Winter drive up and go directly to the telephone. Neat sort of case, actually. Real nice suspect. Possible motives up the ying yang.” Horowitz sounded a bit nostalgic, as if he wished it were his case.

  “You got a name for that witness?”

  Horowitz paused. I heard papers riffle. “Nope.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “Anonymous tip. Unreliable witness. Vague on description. Drunk, maybe. Hard to say.”

  “Well, listen. I appreciate it,” I said.

  “Oh, you’ll pay.”

  “Willingly.”

  “So what’re you going to do?”

  “Me? I’m going home, have a bowl of Lipton’s chicken noodle soup and go to bed. I feel cruddy.”

  “About your client, I mean.”

  “Nothing. He hasn’t been accused of anything.”

  “That’s what I’d do, too.”

  I watched the first three innings of the Red Sox game. It was six to one, Baltimore. Hurst was wild. I snapped off the television and went out onto the little balcony that clings to the side of my apartment building. I snuffled in a few lungfuls of sea air. From my perspective six stories up in the air, Boston Harbor lay tranquil before me. A ferry, carrying a load of pleasure seekers on an aimless, alcoholic cruise of the harbor islands, scrolled a white wake across the sea’s moonlit surface. The sounds of a rock band echoed up to me. In the harbor’s murky depths, I knew, all sorts of foul chemicals were busy reacting with each other. Deadly bacteria mutating like crazy. Fish gasping and dying. Mollusks growing fat on the poisons.

  The patch of Atlantic Ocean in front of me had recently been proclaimed the dirtiest in the land. Considering all that, it didn’t smell so bad.

  I went back inside, brushed my teeth, dropped my clothes onto the floor, and crawled naked between the sheets. I picked up my tattered copy of Moby-Dick and opened it to a random page. Excellent bedtime reading. It never failed to make my eyelids droop.

  The phone beside the bed jangled. This was getting to be a habit. I picked it up.

  “This is Coyne,” I said.

  I heard a series of staccato grunts, like a chain saw that was reluctant to start.

  “Hello?” I said. “Who is this?”

  There was a moment of silence. Then a high-pitched voice stammered, “Eyesore maybe swisher ballman.”

  “Excuse me? I didn’t understand—”

  I heard a click.

  I wondered what Snooker Lynch had been trying to say to me.

  7

  I SCRIBBLED THE SYLLABLES, as well as I could phonetically work them out, into the inside cover of Moby-Dick:

  Eyesore maybe swisher ballman.

  I looked at it and added a couple question marks.

  It must have been Snooker Lynch, the retarded guy who had been leaning on my car in Des Winter’s driveway, though I wouldn’t have thought Snooker would know how to use a telephone, never mind look up my number in the book. Hard to know how much significance to place on anything that Snooker Lynch might tell me, even if I knew what he was trying to say.

  I put Melville’s tome back onto the bedside table and flicked off the light. My eyelids clanged shut.

  I awoke, as usual, before I wanted to. I pulled on
a pair of sweat pants and shuffled barefoot to the kitchen. Beyond the expanse of glass of the sliders, I could see that a heavy cloudbank had cruised in overnight and settled over the harbor. It hadn’t yet started to rain.

  I loaded up the electric coffee machine and retrieved the morning Globe from outside my door. I tossed it onto the kitchen table and retreated to the bathroom, where I showered and shaved. By the time I had donned my office clothes, my coffee was ready. I poured a mugful and took it and my newspaper out onto the balcony.

  I found Maggie’s story in the Metro section on page twenty-seven under the headline NORTH SHORE WOMAN CLUBBED TO DEATH.

  The body of a Newburyport woman was found aboard a pleasure craft moored in the Merrimack River early Monday morning by local police. She had apparently been killed by repeated blows to her head with a heavy clublike object.

  According to police spokesman, Newburyport Detective John Fourier, the dead woman has been identified as Margaret Winter, wife of Marcus Winter of Newburyport.

  “At this stage of the investigation,” said Fourier in a prepared statement, “we have arrested no one. We are cooperating fully with the state police.”

  Fourier indicated that the police are pursuing several promising leads.

  Dozens of trees had been slain to provide enough paper for all the words that had been written about the bones in Bill Walton’s feet. Barrels of ink had been consumed in printing the stories about an obscure tendon in Oil Can Boyd’s pitching arm.

  Maggie’s death got four short paragraphs.

  For Des’s sake, I was glad it was short and obscure and made no mention of his connection to her.

  Another story on the page facing the piece on Maggie caught my eye. SLAIN ATTORNEY IDENTIFIED, it read.

  The body of a man found stabbed to death in a Danvers motel Monday has been identified as Nathan R. Greenberg.

  Greenberg, 43, was an attorney from Asheville, North Carolina.

  Bernard Tabor, manager of the Sleepytime Motel in Danvers, told reporters that he became suspicious when a Do Not Disturb sign remained on Greenberg’s door after checkout time on Monday. “Finally,” said Tabor, “I unlocked the door. It was about one in the afternoon. There was blood all over the place, and this little bald guy is lying there on the bed with no clothes on and he sure looked dead to me. But I knew enough not to touch anything. I called the police.”