by Parnell Hall
She looked at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you? We’re really going on with the show?”
Herbie took a breath. He looked out over the audience at the trustees, most of whom were looking in our direction. He exhaled, looked back at us and smiled grimly.
“You better believe we are.”
14.
CHIEF BOB, AS I’D COME to think of him, looked none the worse for wear. I’ll bet I did. It was four in the fucking morning. Please excuse the expletive, but it was the second night in a row I’d happened to see that particular hour, and it’s not one of my favorites. In fact, as a time of day, I’d have to rank it pretty damn low.
I was not happy to be there. I had sat in the auditorium all night long while every stinking actor, trustee, apprentice, director, producer, director’s wife or what have you, had been led out one at a time, never to return, leaving me all alone in the audience of an empty theater—well, empty except for the bored-looking cop sitting dangling his legs over the front of the stage. And much of that time I had been prompted on my lines by a seemingly endless procession of people, each one, upon being called, passing on the prompt script to the next outwardly helpful person, whom I couldn’t help viewing, however, as yet another sadistic Grand Inquisitor. In the course of the evening I must have been prompted by a good ten to fifteen people, none of them, praise the lord, the dreaded Captain Kirk. He was the first apprentice chosen to be questioned, and therefore mercifully and rapidly gone. But most of the rest of them had a whack at me, for all the good it did—unless there’s something to sleep-teaching, I don’t think I learned a single line.
At any rate, at four in the morning, barely conscious and my mind mush, I was summoned once again into the presence of Chief Bob, who, as I said, looked none the worse for wear. Of course, if you’re bald, your hair can’t be out of place, but still. The guy didn’t look a bit fazed. He waved me in, motioned me to the big, overstuffed chair. He was sitting in the straight-backed makeup chair himself as he had in our first interview, and this time it struck me as a ploy on his part—going the Spartan route himself, so the witnesses, given better, couldn’t complain. Anyway, he waved me to the chair and said, “Thanks for sticking around,” as if that had been a conscious decision on my part.
I slumped in the chair; said wearily, “What can I tell you that I haven’t already?”
He smiled. “Not much, I’m sure. I imagine you checked your script to see if that actor left the stage after his scene. I asked him myself and he says he did. But he says he exited stage left.”
I frowned, tried to think. “Yes, I guess he would have.”
“Then I would think he did. There’s no real reason to doubt him. He says it’s penciled in his script, ‘Exit DL,’ for down left. He didn’t have it with him, but offered to bring it in if we want. Of course he could erase it and change it if it said ‘DR,’ but I’d be looking for that. Besides, I’ll be in the audience tomorrow night and see which way he goes.”
“The show is really going on?”
“You bet. It’s not just that Herbie’s a pal of mine. I want to see it.” He shrugged, grinned. “You know, like the cops always do in books. Reconstruct the scene of the crime. I mean, I can question the actors all night long about where they were and what they did in Act Three, but it’ll be a lot clearer to me to just watch ’em do it.”
“Do you think it’s one of them?”
“Well, it’s somebody Who else was there?”
“Anyone could have come up the stairs and killed him while we were all onstage.”
He nodded. “Absolutely. No doubt about it. And if that happened, I’d certainly like to prove it. The one sure way I could would be to prove that none of the actors could have done it.”
“True,” I said. “Another way would be to find someone who saw someone going up the stairs.”
“Yes, wouldn’t that be nice. The eyewitness always makes circumstantial evidence that much more convincing. But failing that, we have to think out this crime.”
“You’ll pardon me, but it seems like you don’t have much to go on.”
“I've got you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He smiled. “To help me, I mean. To think this thing out.”
There came a knock on the door.
Chief Bob called, “Come in.”
Herbie entered carrying two Styrofoam cups.
“Ah, thanks, Herbie. Just what we need,” Chief Bob said.
Herbie handed one of the cups to him, one to me.
“Thanks, Herbie,” I said. “Where did you find coffee this time of night?”
He jerked his thumb. “Mary Anne’s got a hot plate. It’s just instant, and there’s no milk and sugar. But it does have caffeine.”
I took a sip. It was terrible, but very welcome.
“You gonna be long?” Herbie asked.
Chief Bob shook his head. “No, we can close up shop soon. I just need a few minutes with your boy.”
Herbie nodded and went out, closing the door behind him.
Chief Bob said, “Good man. Too bad this had to happen to him.”
“Right,” I said, I took another sip of horrendous coffee. “All right, look, this may have caffeine in it, but frankly I’m fading fast. What’s this evidence you want me to evaluate?”
“Well, to begin with, I have a problem with the knife.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. The murder weapon. I told you it’s a prop from the show.”
“Yeah. Zoo Story. So?”
He jerked his thumb. “You know the prop room’s right next door?”
“Right.”
“You’ve had reason to go there?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“To get props, perhaps? For your show?”
“No.”
“No? You didn’t have any personal props? For the dress rehearsal?”
“Actually, there was a gun I used in Act One.”
“But you didn’t get it from the prop room?”
“No. It was on a prop table backstage.”
“I see. So you’ve never had occasion to go to the prop room?”
I hesitated.
“Well?” he said.
“The night before this. Strike night. I rehearsed till three in the morning, couldn’t sleep, wandered over here to check the place out. I happened to notice the prop room then.”
“At three in the morning?”
“Between three and four. Why?”
“That’s the problem. The switchblade knife should have been struck with the props from the show. The apprentice in charge of props—his name’s Jack—says it was. Says he got it back from the actor and gave it to Goobie Wheatly. Right after the play. And right after that it should have been taken down to the prop room and left on the shelf with all the other props from the show.” He jerked his thumb again. “There’s a shelf in there marked Zoo Story. Did you see that?”
“Actually, I did.”
“Really? You recall seeing the knife on it?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t notice.”
“Damn,” he said. “You sure of that? I mean, maybe you don’t remember seeing the knife. But do you remember not seeing it? Like it wasn’t on the shelf?”
“I just don’t know. I wasn’t looking for it, you know? All I saw was the pistol I use in Act One.”
“Was the door locked at the time?”
“No. It was closed, but not locked.”
“You open it and go in?”
“No, I just looked through the screen.” I looked at him. “What’s the problem with the knife?”
“Same one I got with you. I can’t find anyone who recalls seeing it on that shelf.”
“Oh.”
“And by rights it should have been there. With all the other props. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a switchblade. Which makes it illegal. As such, Goobie might have hung onto it. Not put it with the other pr
ops.”
“I see.”
“Now if it was in the prop room, it’s no problem for the murderer. ’Cause the door’s unlocked. It was unlocked when I got here, and apparently it was unlocked during the show. So if the knife was there, it’s no problem for someone to go in and take it. Plus, with that chicken-wire door, you could see it lying there on the shelf just walking by.” He looked at me. “It’s a wonder you didn’t see it.”
“I had other things on my mind.”
“So it would seem.”
I took a breath. “All right,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t see the murder weapon, but the fact is I didn’t. If there’s nothing else, I’d really like to get to bed.”
“I know,” Chief Bob said. “Just one more thing.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
He looked at me and cocked his head.
“What’s this about Captain Kirk?”
15.
I STARED AT CHIEF BOB in utter disbelief. “What?”
“Captain Kirk. Tell me about Captain Kirk.”
“The prompter?”
“Yes, the prompter. I understand you had some trouble with him.”
“Oh, good lord.”
“Am I misinformed?”
“There is an apprentice called Kirk. Goobie called him Captain Kirk. He was the prompter on the show. I don’t know who assigned him to it, but he never should have been, because he was absolutely incompetent.”
“Which I understand you pointed out.”
I took a breath. I was trying to control myself but I was having a hard time. I was beginning to feel as angry and frustrated now as I had been when actually confronted with the problem of Captain Kirk.
“Yes, I pointed that out,” I said. “I’m fitting into the show on two days’ notice. I’m learning the lines cold. It’s a tough enough task without a bad prompter always fouling me up.”
He nodded. Held up his hand. “I understand. It was incredibly frustrating for you, so you had to ask for relief. Which you did. And what happened then?”
“I gather you’ve heard this story.”
“Yes, I have, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
I took a breath. “All right. It was during the tech rehearsal. Captain Kirk jumped my line and I blew up. Said I couldn’t work this way. Which was true, but I regret how I said it. At any rate, when that happened Herbie told Goobie Wheatly that I couldn’t work with this guy prompting, and Goobie proceeded to boot him off the show.”
“In front of everyone?”
“Yes. He called him out on the stage and let him have it. Told him he was being fired for doing a lousy job.”
“And what is your personal opinion of the way Goobie did this?”
I took another breath. “He did it to ridicule and humiliate me.”
“That’s how you saw it?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Make you angry?”
“Not angry enough to kill him.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But you were pretty steamed?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Yes, of course.” He smiled. “This doesn’t require that much explanation. I’ve worked with Goobie Wheatly myself. I know how he can be.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“I’m a cop. I have to ask my questions. And this is something that came up.”
“Came up how?”
“I naturally asked everyone who’d want to see Goobie Wheatly dead. You’d be surprised how many votes you got.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Well, it’s natural. New kid in town. Let’s blame him before we blame one of us. Plus Goobie gunned you down onstage in sight of all. There were a lot of witnesses to that scene. Anyway, let’s get on with it. That happened in Act One?”
“Let me see. It was my scene with Raina and—that’s right, Act One.”
“Yes, in the voting, that was the most likely time it happened. But witnesses are not always accurate.”
“So,” I said, “this happened in the tech rehearsal, I let it fester inside me all day till the dress, and then did the sucker in?”
“You don’t like that theory?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Well, there’s a wrinkle.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. This Captain Kirk. He was prompting you from offstage. Next to Goobie Wheatly. Sitting there in that folding chair.”
“Yeah. So?”
“He’s there in Act Three, Goobie Wheatly doesn’t die.”
“Son of a bitch!”
He put up his hands. “Hey, I’m not trying to load you up with guilt. But that’s the situation. The only reason Goobie Wheatly could be killed in Act Three was because he was alone. Because there was no prompter there.”
“You’re saying I got rid of Captain Kirk so I’d have a clear shot at Goobie Wheatly?”
“That’s the wrinkle,”
“Yeah, but, Jesus Christ.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I killed Goobie Wheatly for publicly humiliating me. To do so I had to get rid of the prompter. But getting rid of the prompter is the thing he publicly humiliates me for. See what I mean? It’s out of order. When I gave myself the opportunity, I had no motive. So I had no motive to give myself the opportunity.”
“There’s no reason to get upset.”
“Oh, no? You’re sitting here accusing me of murder.”
“No such thing. We’re merely evaluating possibilities.”
“But they all come back to me.”
“Funny about that.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he put up his hand. “Please. Let’s not have a childish argument. These things come up and they have to be discussed. That doesn’t mean I think you did it.”
“Thanks for your support.”
“I’m merely telling you how it is. To give you a chance to help yourself while you’re helping me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you could come up with anything conclusive that could prove you didn’t do it, it would be a big help to both of us.”
I looked at him. “How the hell could I do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if you saw or heard something. Anything that might help. Of course, I don’t have the medical report yet. Once I get that, pin down the time of death, we’ll be in a lot better shape.”
He jerked his thumb at the notebook on the makeup counter. “Anyway, I got a lot of statements to go over. A lot of stories I want to check with you. But not tonight. And not tomorrow, either. Herbie needs you to rehearse the show. So for now, let’s just hit the high spots. When was the last time you saw Goobie Wheatly alive?”
I exhaled, shook my head. “I’ve been trying to think, and you know, it’s tough. I know he was alive at the beginning of Act Three.”
“You saw him?”
“No, I didn’t. I heard him, but I didn’t see him. I was sitting on the top step of the stage-right stairs, cramming my lines. I heard him call, “Places, please.” I put down the script where I told you before, and went out onstage. I’m seated at the desk when the curtain goes up. Now I know he was alive when I walked out on the set. And I know he was alive when the curtain went up.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it went up. That was him. He pulled it.”
“Anyone could have pulled the curtain up.”
“Yeah, but the lights went up too. Ridley wouldn’t have brought ’em up unless Goobie said, ‘Go.’”
“Over the headset?”
“Yes.”
“A murderer couldn’t have picked up the headset, whispered ‘Go’?”
“Yes, he could, but it’s a moot point. You’ll recall he’d taken over the prompting—my motive for the killing, right? Well, he was prompting, I’m shaky on my lines, and he must have prompted me three or four times during the act.”
Chief Bob nodded. “Yes. Now we’re coming to it. That fact is testified to by almost all o
f the witnesses. You were prompted several times during the act. Now, can you swear it was Goobie Wheatly feeding you the lines?”
I hesitated. “Let me be very careful here. Swear to it? I don’t know. But just between you and me, I’m sure it was. Prompters are very different, they all have different styles. Now, what I heard each time was just a few whispered words—not enough for a voice ID—but I’d gotten used to Goobie’s style, and I’m sure it was him.”
“Could someone imitate him?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. It would be easier to imitate his voice than to imitate his style of prompting. As a prompter he was very good. I don’t know many prompters who are that good. To pass for him while prompting that well—I can’t imagine anyone doing that. For my money, it was him.”
“Then I’m sure it was. I value your statement. For my money, an opinion like that’s more likely to be right than some schmuck says, ‘Oh yeah, had to be Goobie, no doubt about it.’ A jury may not feel that way, but I sure do. So let’s take it for granted it was Goobie giving you the lines.
“Okay, let’s talk this through. As I understand it, when Act Three begins you’re onstage. You have a scene with everybody, they all exit except you and the young girl. That’s Margie, right?”
“Right.”
“You play a long scene with her, then the other girl enters.” He consulted his notes. “That’s Nellie Knight?”
“I believe so.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I’m just learning this, remember?”
“Indeed I do. But according to my notes, that’s what happens. Of course, we can always check the script. But that’s not important now. All right, she enters, gives you a letter. You read it and exit. Then Margie exits, and she plays a scene with the other servant. Then the other guy, this TV actor; enters, plays a scene with her. The other guy went out when he came in. At the end of that scene you come in as she goes out. You start off playing a scene with the TV guy. More and more people keep entering after that, one at a time—we don’t have to sort it out now, but they do—and that takes us right up to the end of the act.” He stopped, looked at me. “Is that right?”