“Are you hiding something?”
“Of course not.”
I smiled. “Maybe not, but tomorrow in court I think I can make it look very much like you are. You can avoid all that by just letting me have a quick look at what you’ve got.”
“But —”
“I give you my word I will never tell a soul, Ernie, if that’s what’s worrying you. This will set no precedent, believe me, and it will allow me to be a little easier on you tomorrow in the witness stand.”
I could see the last part made a difference.
The loud sigh had a theatrical sound. “Well, if it’s the only way I can get rid of you.”
“It is.”
He led me down the hall and unlocked a small office, turned on the light, and closed the door after I followed him in.
Ernie unlocked a cabinet, took out a file, and handed it to me.
“This is it. You can sit at the desk there. I can spare ten minutes, no more.”
I took a chair and opened the file. He stood directly behind me.
Some things never change, and a medical examiner’s file in a homicide case was one of them. There was a diary for entries, the rough notes, the audiotape made during the autopsy, copies of lab reports, and the preliminary autopsy report itself. Plus the photographs.
I quickly leafed through the autopsy report. It provided the usual details. Harrison Harwell, dead, had measured six feet one and he had been weighed in at 217 pounds. Each organ had been weighed and its condition had been noted. Aside from the damage done by the knife, the liver had been slightly enlarged and the heart showed evidence of a previous coronary problem, but nothing really life-threatening. So except for one hell of a stab wound in the chest, Harrison Harwell had been in relatively good shape for his age. The cause of death was shown as homicide with a short statement that sounded as if one of the cops had written it for Ernie, but I had expected that.
The photos were better than average, and there were more than usual.
Most were of the body, naked if you didn’t count the knife sticking out of the hairy chest. Some shots showed the whole body exhibited, others were close-ups catching the knife in all its hideous invasion. Harrison Harwell’s eyes were open, which made the grisly color photos even more gruesome. When they were shown to a jury, those dead staring eyes would give the photos real show-biz punch.
Several shots showed the knife after it had been extracted. One displaying the knife next to the puckered wound was especially dramatic. Others merely showed the knife against a measure. The curved handle and the blade were stained. But despite the blood, it was a beautiful thing, and a perfect match for the big sword hanging in Harwell’s study.
“Who took the snapshots?” I asked.
“Some were done by the police photographer. Most of them I did. I have several cameras.”
“You’re pretty good, Ernie. You’ve missed your calling. You got any around any of the nurses? Maybe some of big Brenda? You know, art studies.”
“Your time is up.”
I looked at the photos again. “Is this how they brought him in, with the knife still in the chest?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, didn’t they bring him in with the knife out and you stuck it back in to take these pictures?”
“I did like hell. What you see is what I saw. He was dead when they found him, so they left the knife in.”
“Was he found naked?”
“No. He had clothes. They’re here, marked as evidence.”
“But he came in naked?”
“No. I took off his clothes before taking the pictures.”
“But the knife?”
He sighed in exasperation. “I was able to get the damn shirt off. It’s just routine. I often just cut the clothes off unless it’s important to the case. The shirt was a kind of silk pajama top. It was already open when his daughter stabbed him.”
“Even Pickeral Point takes photos of homicide scenes, Ernie. I can check the cop’s pictures taken at the scene. If that knife is in the wrong way it will be your ass in court, you do understand that?”
“Check all you want. That’s how he came in here.”
“I see you got a copying machine over there.” It was a desk-top model. “Let me copy a few of these pictures.”
“No way.”
“Ah, then you did doctor up the body, didn’t you?”
“Damn it, I did not.”
“Then you should have no objection to my making a couple copies.”
“Look —”
“It will be our secret, Ernie. We both know you shouldn’t have even let me in here. Just a copy of a few shots. And then I’ll leave.” I made my tone innocent but he understood the implied threat.
The smile had really gone for good this time. He stalked over to the table and flicked the copier’s switch. An electrical hum filled the room.
I quickly made a copy of each photograph. They were black and white and grainy but they would serve my purpose. I could almost feel Dr. Rey’s growing anger.
“You got an envelope I can put these in, Ernie?”
“Get the fuck out of here!”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as I left. “And watch out for Brenda. She looks like the kind who might get carried away with passion and do you serious bodily harm. The living ones can do that sometimes, you know.”
When he slammed the office door, the noise echoed down the empty corridor like a cannon shot.
*
I DROVE back to Pickeral Point, my mind working on possible strategies for court in the morning. Guilt continued to gnaw away at me, but not quite as violently as before. I knew I would have to call Robin. I wondered how she felt and how the funeral had gone. I wondered if she would want to see me. In a way, I hoped she would, but simultaneously I hoped she wouldn’t. I tried to put all that out of my mind; it wasn’t that important now. What was important was to get prepared for the morning. Much of what would happen to Angel Harwell in the future would depend on what I could do for her in the morning. Her softly spoken plea for help echoed in my mind.
As I pulled into the mall parking lot near my office a large red Rolls Royce was pulling out. Rollses are a rarity in Pickeral Point. The blood-red finish glinted as if it had just been oiled. The windows were tinted so I couldn’t see the passengers. When I owned my Rolls I wanted everyone to see whose car it was. But to each his own.
Our big-breasted receptionist was almost glad to see me. “Some guys were here looking for you,” she said, “but they left. You just missed them.”
“What were their names?”
She shrugged. “They wouldn’t give names. There were three of them, black guys. Scary-looking. Street guys, but they were wearing really expensive jewelry. I don’t know much, but I do know jewelry. The guy who I think was the boss they called Little Mike, although he was tall. Maybe it was a joke, you think?”
“Did they leave a message, a phone number?”
She shook her head. “No They just said to tell you they would be back. They didn’t want to make an appointment. They didn’t seem the kind that would. I think they want you for their lawyer, anyway I kinda got that from the way they were talking.” She handed me a pack of messages. “These people called. Oh yeah, and Mitch would like to see you.”
“Thanks.”
As I walked toward Mitch’s office I looked through the messages. Most were from reporters and media people, although a few were from local people who I didn’t know, and one call was from Robin.
Mitch Johnson was talking on the phone when I stuck my head in his door. He smiled and motioned me to come in and sit down.
The furnishings in his office were very much like Mitch himself, plain but of very good quality. Mitch Johnson was my benefactor. We had been law students together, and while I had pursued fame and fortune in Detroit’s criminal courts, he had come up to Pickeral Point. He had not found fame but he had done all right in the fortune department. Mitch ran a three-man par
tnership that represented most of the local banks, so the firm got much of the big-money trust and estate work in the county.
Mitch was talking to a banker about a trust question as I sat down.
Despite the disastrous publicity resulting from my conviction and my subsequent brush with the bar association, Mitch had extended the hand of friendship when I needed it. It was the only one offered at the time, and I appreciated it. He let me use an office, rent-free. I heard later that the other two partners had been upset, but Mitch had insisted. His help had been like a lifeline to a drowning swimmer.
Mitch had lost most of the thick brown hair he had when we were students. His dark eyes, large and friendly, now peered out from behind thick steel-rimmed glasses. He had put on weight to the point of being pudgy and his conservative clothes always looked a size too small despite being carefully tailored. He smiled a lot and had an excellent sense of humor. He resembled a small-town banker and maybe that’s why he got their business.
Mitch completed the call and hung up.
“You’re becoming quite a celebrity. The whole town is talking about the Harwell case. Pretty exciting stuff for you, I’ll bet.”
I thought I detected a strained quality in his voice, the tone a person uses in a conversation he really doesn’t want to have. “It’s my fifteen minutes of fame, Mitch.”
He nodded. “Well, this certainly marks a new start for you, Charley. Back to the big time, eh? I suppose you’ll be leaving this stodgy old firm now.”
“What’s the problem, Mitch?”
“What I mean, Charley, is you’ll be raking in the big fees again. You’ll need more space than we have and now you’ll need your own clerical staff.”
“Hey, Mitch, relax. You can talk straight with me. What’s the trouble?”
He slowly shook his head. “God, I hate to do this, but I have to ask you to leave our offices.”
“Sure, Mitch. No problem.”
“Don’t you want to know why?”
“Mitch, you were the only one who helped me when I needed it. You, of all people, don’t need to give me a reason.”
“Ah, Jesus, Charley, you make me feel even worse. Look, it’s a business problem, mostly. You know what we do here, a nice quiet probate practice. Most of our clients, the important ones, are gray-haired old widows who have us look after their estates. This isn’t exactly LA. Law around here, as you know.”
I smiled. “I know.”
“You’re back on the front pages, Charley, and in a very good way. The publicity’s great for you, but not for a quiet probate firm like this. Murder, criminal law, that sort of thing frightens our kind of clients.”
“I understand.”
‘The other guys pitched a bitch when they heard you took on the Harwell case. They were afraid the firm might get hurt by the association. And today kind of finished things off.”
“What happened today?”
“Your prospective clients.”
“You do mean the three street dudes waiting to see me? I missed them.”
“You’re lucky. They looked like a rerun of a Miami Vice episode. One of our widows, an old gal worth about forty million, ramp by to see me while they were out there in the reception room. Jesus, Charley, the sight of them scared her away. She called from the drugstore, very upset.”
“Nothing to worry about. I’ll be packed and gone tomorrow. And I certainly understand, believe me.” There was no point in telling Mitch that I would be out of the Harwell case after tomorrow.
“Who were those guys, Charley?”
It was my turn to sigh. “From what I can learn you saw a gentlemen called Little Mike, an old client of mine, from Detroit. His name is Michael Tyler. He’s a businessman primarily.”
“He didn’t look it.”
“Mitch, his business is drugs. And, to help business, murder, if he thinks it’s necessary. I guess he reads the papers and thinks I’m back full-time in criminal practice. I represented him a couple of times in Detroit, always with good results. He always liked me. Little Mike must be doing all right. I think I saw his car, a Rolls. When I knew him all he could afford was a Mercedes. Of course, he was only seventeen then. He has to be twenty-one, maybe twenty-two now. That’s old in his line of work.”
“I feel terrible about this, Charley. I wish you didn’t have to move.”
“Mitch, you’ve been more than a friend to me. Don’t get silly.”
“Do you have any place to go?”
“Obviously, I hadn’t thought about it. I suppose I can find an office somewhere around here.”
“Maybe I can help you out.”
“Thanks, but you’ve done enough.”
A relieved smile crept across his face. “Well, maybe it’s more like you helping me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m executor of Simon Matthews’s estate. He was a tax lawyer up here. I don’t think you knew him. He was dead a year or so before you came up. Anyway, I run one of his buildings, maybe you’ve seen it, an ugly-looking thing up by Windsong Marina, looks like a concrete fortress.”
“The marine insurance place?”
“Yeah, that’s it. But that outfit only rents the first floor. Simon had an office suite on the second floor. It’s just a one-room office with a reception room. There’s an outside stairway up to the place. He owned the building so I guess he decided to locate his office there. Anyway, I’ve been trying to sell the whole place since he died. His heirs are a couple of greedy nephews in Florida. The place doesn’t have many uses so I haven’t had even one offer. I tried to rent the law office but nobody wants it, it’s too out of the way.”
“And you’re offering it to me.”
“Well, as a stopgap only. I’d have to charge you real rent since I have to account to the court, but you can have it as long as you want or until I sell the building.”
“I don’t have any furniture, Mitch.”
“Old Simon’s is still in there. It’s not exactly what you’d call high fashion, but feel free to use it. You can have the telephone company transfer your number there. There’s a phone, unconnected now, of course.”
“What’s the rent?”
Mitch shrugged. “Like I say, I have to account to the court so I can’t even give you much of a bargain. Those nephews watch every nickel. It’s a thousand a month. I’d make it no lease, just month to month. Can you handle that?”
“I can. For a while.”
‘Then it’s a deal?”
I stood up and we shook hands. “I will never forget your kindness, Mitch.”
He sighed, then smiled sadly. “Sure you will, Charley. Everyone forgets kindness. The only thing anyone really remembers is when they get kicked in the ass.”
He pulled open a drawer, hunted around, and pulled out a small envelope.
“Here’s the key. Let’s hope it opens a whole new life for you.”
*
WHAT’S that old line — I’ve been thrown out of better places than this.
Still, I couldn’t put aside a sad, nagging sense of rejection.
I didn’t feel like talking to Robin, at least not yet, and I didn’t feel like answering the other messages, either. So I drove out to take a look at my new office.
The Windsong Marina can only handle small powerboats since its sole access to the river is a canal under a bridge. But it is home to a hundred or so boats small enough to clear the bridge even if their owners have to duck.
The marine insurance office was closed when I got there. I had often driven past the building and the only memory I had of it was that whoever had built it had taken his architectural degree in advanced ugly. Square, squat, concrete, with only a few small windows, it looked like a place where small animals were put to death. It was located across the road from the Windsong Marina, on the river side.
The outside stairway, which looked more like a fire escape, was located on the side of the place, rising up from the small parking lot. I wouldn’t be getting too m
any old lady clients — it was quite a climb to the top.
There really was no second floor. The office seemed like an afterthought, another small squat building set on top of the flat roof like a hat.
The office door still had Simon Matthews’s name on it, although the glass was so dirty it was hard to see it. I used the key and went in.
The place had the musty atmosphere of an ancient tomb. I flipped on the light and took a look.
The reception room was small, with a desk and chair for the secretary and a large, very worn black leather couch. There was a matching chair, equally old and equally worn. The carpet looked older than I am.
I stepped into the office proper. The desk looked like something out of Charles Dickens, a piece Ebenezer Scrooge might have used, so old that it was probably extremely valuable. Behind it was a high-back leather chair, worn and listing a bit to one side. The dust on the desk was as thick as a first snowfall. Three walls were filled with bookcases, all full and very dusty. The fourth wall was mostly window.
I looked out the window. At least Simon Matthews hadn’t cheated himself on the view. It was the same river, and almost the same vista seen from millionaires’ row.
A cramped phone booth-sized bathroom, with a toilet and a washbowl, was tucked away near in a corner, its door almost hidden by the bookcases.
I took a look at the law books. Every set ended with 1988. I figured that was probably the year Matthews died.
The dusty, archaic office was something out of another century.
I loved it.
7
THE ALARM, SOUNDING LIKE THE WAIL OF A SCOUT car, melded into my dream, becoming for a moment part of the drama elaborately scripted and directed by my sleeping mind. But then the nightmare evaporated as the incessant ringing propelled me back into the real world. I reached over and shut the damn thing off.
I was awake but not rested. The night had been a series of tension-inspired dreams interspersed with long periods of sleeplessness. I regretted having passed on my usual Thursday night meeting of the Club, something I hadn’t done in months. I had told myself I would need that time to prepare for the preliminary examination. But I should have gone — most of my preparation time had been wasted, used up struggling against that old nagging urge for just one quick drink.
Shadow of A Doubt Page 10