by D. W. Buffa
“I think so,” Friedman explained. “Quite some time ago—before I was here—his children were apparently adopted by his wife’s new husband.”
“But that’s impossible,” I protested. “That can only be done with the parents’ consent.” Then it hit me. “Oh, my God. Of course! How stupid of me not to think of it.”
“What?”
“They went to court—his wife and her new husband—and the court took away his parental rights. In the eyes of the law, he doesn’t have any children. That’s what he meant when he said he doesn’t know their names. He doesn’t know them—or rather he doesn’t want to know them—by their new last name: Jeffries.”
Friedman nodded politely. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” he said in a neutral voice. “It’s hard to know with Elliott. He’s a difficult case—interesting, but difficult.”
We had reached the glass door at the entrance. Friedman started to push it open then, with his hand still on it, hunched his shoulders forward, bent his head, and stared down at the linoleum floor. “Elliott is a paranoid schizophrenic,” he said in a somber tone, as he raised his eyes. “Why are you smiling?” he asked, baffled at my reaction.
I had not been aware of it. “Sorry,” I said, a little embarrassed.
“It was something Elliott said.”
He took my explanation at face value. He was used to people who had a number of things going on in their mind at the same time.
“As I was saying, he’s a paranoid schizophrenic, and unlike some patients with this illness who exhibit only a few symptoms, Elliott seems to experience a great many of them.”
“Is one of them getting caught in a word and then repeating words that rhyme?”
“Yes. ‘Clanging.’ Something happens in the brain, the wrong message gets sent, and instead of the sequence of words to complete the thought, it sort of reverses itself, and it is the word that in some sense has to be completed. That is a fairly common symptom, and, quite frankly, not a very serious one. Elliott has much more serious problems. Sometimes he does not talk for days. He withdraws into himself and when that happens there is no reaching him. You saw the way he looked when you first arrived, that trancelike stare. But then, other times, he’ll start talking, fast, furious, and half the time it doesn’t make any sense at all, or the words are run so close together you can’t tell if it does or not.
Then, at other times, he’s completely rational and remarkably intelligent.”
Friedman paused and searched my eyes. “Is he anything like the way you remembered him?”
I had to think about it. He was not the same at all, but now that I had seen him, a dozen years older, an inmate in a hospital for the criminally insane; now that I had a better idea of what had happened to him, I wondered if what I had remembered about him had not been more the work of my own imagination than anything that had ever been real.
Nine
_______
The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still so dark that though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon day had already turned to night. On the street below the hospital the headlights of the cars that passed cast an eerie yellow glow in the gloomy mist. At the end of the lane that led from the parking lot, someone darted out of the shadows. I slammed on the brakes. His face twisted into angry contortions, he waved his fist at me and shouted a silent curse. I wondered if he was a patient, or just someone normal giving vent to his rage.
I thought about Elliott Winston while I drove back to Portland, and I thought about him during the next several days, every time something I heard or something I read ignited in my head a burst of similar-sounding words. Once, at lunch with another lawyer, I did it out loud. I said the word “eating,” and then heard myself say, “greeting … meeting … beating.”
“Don’t you ever do that?” I asked, rather amused at what I had just done. “Listen to the sound of words, rhyme them together?”
He said he did not, and I wondered whether to believe him. One thought led to another. “It’s the basic principle of poetry, isn’t it?
The sound, the rhyme?” I thought of something else. “Before things were written down, it was a way to help people remember what had been said.”
He did not disagree, but he also did not really care. We were there to discuss a question of law, and there was very little room for poetry in that.
For the next several weeks there was not much room for much of anything. I was in one trial after another, and I might not have thought about Elliott at all, had the search for the killer of Calvin Jeffries not remained front-page news. Whenever I was reminded of that murder, something about Elliott, a remark, a gesture, his astonishing piercing stare, flashed in front of me. The two of them, one dead, the other alive but living in a world of his own, had become permanently linked in my mind, a Janus-faced image of good and evil, reason and madness, with my own sympathies fully engaged on the side of insanity.
Perhaps not with all forms of insanity, I told myself as I dressed for a dinner I had no desire to attend. I had gone to his funeral out of a sense of obligation. The murder of a judge, even a judge like Jeffries, was an attack on the law, and the law, despite all my disappointments and disillusions, was the only thing in which I still believed. I was like a priest who had lost faith in the Church but who, perhaps for that reason, clung closer to God.
I had to go to the funeral, but I did not have to go to this. It was a mystery to me why I had ever agreed. Probably it was nothing more than a vague desire to watch one of the ways in which we try to improve the future by telling lies about the past. A picture of Calvin Jeffries had already been hung in the courthouse; his bust would now occupy a niche somewhere in the wall of the law school library. He would become the latest in a long line of supposedly brilliant and honorable jurists to have a professorship, a chair, endowed in his name. He had left the money for it, three quarters of a million, in his will, and no one, especially not the law school, was inclined to look too closely into where it might have come from. Some of it, of course, had come from the money which with the assistance of Elliott Winston he had stolen from his first wife. It did not matter. No one cared about the past. The important thing was this truly wonderful act of public-spirited generosity. Nor did anyone seem to think it at all extraordinary that he had required as a condition of the gift that it be called the Calvin Jeffries Chair of Criminal Procedure. Vanity is not always the last thing to die: Sometimes it does not die at all.
His large pink face beaming, Harper Bryce waved to me from a table in the second row below the dais. Apologizing as I bumped my way through the clogged passageways between tables, I found my place at the last empty chair, right next to Harper. He was standing up, surveying the crowd.
“Full house,” he said. “Must be seven, eight hundred people.”
A jaundiced grin cut across his face. “First the funeral, now this.
Jeffries can really turn them out.”
I followed his eyes out across the ballroom, filled with well-dressed men and expensively dressed women, women with glittering smiles and bright-colored jewels. There was noise everywhere, glasses tinkling, shoes shuffling, chairs moving, and voices, hundreds of them, all talking at once, a deafening, unintelligible din, roaring in your ears like a thousand thoughts clam-oring for your undivided attention. Then, above it all, a sound at first like a flight of Canadian geese, then like a single blast from a fat schoolboy’s tuba. I turned around. Harper Bryce, his face buried in a white linen handkerchief, was blowing his nose.
“Every damn April,” he groused, a look of disgust on his face.
He folded the handkerchief and put it back in the breast pocket of his dark blue suit.
We were sitting at a table paid for by Harper’s newspaper. The publisher, Otto Rothstein, and his wife, Samantha, were seated on Harper’s left. Rothstein was short, stocky, with a thick neck, and hard, relentless eyes. He looked right at you when he talked, as if he were always trying to size you up. His wife was all
legs and arms, with a concave chest and nothing at all where her hips should have been. She had large, mocking eyes, and the bored smile of a woman who could always think of a place she would rather be. When you were with her it was hard not to share her feeling.
The new editor of the paper, Archie Bailey, cheerful, unas-suming, and, according to Harper, one of the smartest newspa-permen he had ever met, was there with his wife, Rhoda, seven months pregnant with their first child. After I said hello to them both, I was introduced to an older, gray-haired man with a craggy forehead, heavy eyebrows, and a long, straight nose. Dark olive-colored skin stretched tight from his round cheekbones to his narrow, dimpled chin.
“Cesare Orsini,” Harper said, suddenly quite formal. As I leaned across the table and shook his soft, pliable hand, Harper added,
“Professor Orsini teaches at the University of Bologna. He’s the leading expert on Italian Renaissance literature. He’s here to give a series of lectures the paper is helping to sponsor.”
“Mr. Bryce overstates my qualification,” the professor remarked, an amused gleam in his eyes. “I’m just an old man who likes to read things written by people who died a long time ago. It makes me feel young.” His English was impeccable, with only a trace of an accent.
Next to Orsini was an attractive woman with quiet eyes and shoulder-length brown hair. She had the athletic look of someone who spent a lot of time on a golf course or a tennis court.
Lisa Laughlin, Harper explained, was the editor of the society page.
“It’s a great pleasure to meet you,” I said. There was something about her, something about the way she looked at me, that made me stop.
“It’s all right, Mr. Antonelli,” she said, laughing.
I tried to figure out why she was laughing, and I had the odd sense that it was something I should know.
“Joseph,” I said.
This only made her laugh more. “Joseph? Yes, of course,” she said as the laughter died away. “But, you see, Joseph, when I was thirteen and had a crush on you so bad it hurt, everyone called you Joe. Except my sister, who I hated, who called you Joey.”
I still did not know, and she took pity on my ignorance. “My maiden name was Frazier.”
I could have fallen through the floor. Suddenly I was eighteen again, with a butch haircut, two gray stripes on the sleeve of my red letterman sweater, wearing saddle shoes and peg pants, the captain of the high school football team, with a cocky smile but so pathetically self-conscious that I would not wear a short-sleeve shirt on the hottest day of the year because I thought I was skinny and that everyone would laugh. And then Jennifer Frazier, the best-looking girl in school, which meant the best-looking girl in the world, said she’d go out with me and I became a novitiate in the fine art of romantic failure.
I remembered it as if it had all just happened. We went to a party, and while everyone else ate and drank and talked, we stayed in the darkened corner of another room, dancing together as if the night was forever. She was tall and thin, with wide, almond-shaped eyes that changed color with the light, through several shades of brown, and, when everything was just right, to yellow.
She was gorgeous, and I was in love before I kissed her and doomed when I did. When I took her home, sometime after midnight, she lingered in my arms and with a bittersweet look I never forgot, told me that she would ask me to spend the night, but her mother wouldn’t like it. After Jennifer, I didn’t think I could ever fall in love again.
It took me a long time to get over Jennifer Frazier, and now that I was looking at her grown-up little sister and felt the blood rushing to my face and a surge of awkward embarrassment, I knew that I never really had.
“You were just a little kid,” I heard myself say. “A little kid with pigtails and rubber bands, braces on your teeth, a little, skinny kid who liked to play with frogs. You told me you hated boys.”
She smiled at me, and nodded. “And I haven’t changed a bit,”
she said. “And neither have you.”
Under the throbbing din, dozens of white-coated waiters, their eyes darting from large pewter-colored trays to the place on the table where they had to set the next dish, bustled around the cavernous room. At the end of a forgettable meal of lukewarm food, the dishes were removed and coffee was served.
Slowly tapping his fingers on the tablecloth, Professor Orsini seemed to be lost in thought. When he raised his eyes and found me watching, his cheeks flushed, as if he had been caught doing something he should not.
“I was just thinking about the Borgias,” he explained. His dark brown eyes sparkled and he began to gesture with his hands. “It has been said of them that they came into the world as a declaration of war against morality through incest and adultery.”
Everyone at the table stopped what they were doing. Orsini glanced from one to the other. “One of the Borgias became Pope, Alexander VI. His son, named, like myself, Cesare,” he remarked with a cunning smile, “was the one Machiavelli so much admired—or at least seemed to admire. Yes, yes, I know,” he said quickly. “It is unfortunate, but true. The Pope was not always so holy. He also had a daughter, Lucrezia, who was not so good, either.” With a sigh he opened his hands in a gesture of supplica-tion. “She had relations with several of her own family. Today, of course, the Borgias would be considered quite a dysfunctional family and no doubt required to undergo a lengthy process of psy-chological counseling. On the other hand, they did some truly amazing things. It is an interesting question, don’t you think, Mr.
Antonelli? I mean the connection, or perhaps I should say the tension, between conventional morality and the willingness to take great risks, to invent what Machiavelli called new modes and orders?”
He let the question hang in the air for just an instant, and then, turning away from me, went back to what he had been saying.
“You Americans come to a dinner like this, where a prominent political figure is going to make a speech, and you enjoy yourselves immensely. In my country—in Florence in particular—
no one ever wanted to be invited to dine with the Borgias. It was always dangerous to refuse and sometimes fatal to accept.”
Narrowing his eyes, he looked down at the table and shook his head. “At least I had always thought that was a great difference between Italy then and America now,” he said, lifting his gaze.
“But after eating this dinner, I’m no longer quite so sure!”
“You have nothing to worry about, Professor,” Rothstein’s wife assured him with a cadaverous grin. “In this country we don’t poison people, we shoot them.”
“Or stab them,” Harper added, an offhand allusion to what had happened to Calvin Jeffries.
Running a protective hand over the expanding stomach that sheltered her unborn child, Archie Bailey’s wife lowered her eyes.
With a shudder she shook her head in dismal silence.
Immediately, Harper regretted what he had done, but before he could apologize Otto Rothstein asked a question.
“What do you hear about the investigation? Have they got anything at all?”
Harper started to say something, then closed his mouth and wrinkled his nose. He twitched it back and forth, and then, with a hissing noise, drew in three short breaths of air. It did not work.
Pulling out his handkerchief, he blew his nose.
“No, nothing,” he said, sniffing. “They’ve got every cop in the state working on it, and so far they don’t have a thing.” Folding the handkerchief, he paused, a shrewd look in his reddened eyes.
“Or if they do, they’re not talking about it. They’re under a lot of pressure. It’s the biggest case any of them has ever worked on.”
Rothstein furrowed his brow. “It’s been almost two months.
We’ve kept it on the front page about as long as we can. If they don’t do something soon, it’ll be back in the Metro section.” He stopped and looked at me. “What do you think? You know something about criminal behavior. What do you think happened
? Did somebody plan to kill him?”
“The only reason anyone thinks that is because of who the victim was. If it was anyone else—someone whose name was never in the papers—there would be no reason to think it was anything other than a random killing, a robbery gone bad.”
Rothstein liked to argue. He liked to draw people out. If you agreed with anything he said, he would change his position just to see if you were willing to stand your own ground.
“People are murdered on purpose all the time. Most of them aren’t famous.”
“That’s right. But if you plan to kill someone, you don’t usually plan to do it with a knife. Too many things can go wrong.
You have to get too close; the victim has a chance to fight; you may not be able to get it done without doing it more than once.”
I darted a glance at the Baileys. They were talking together and not paying any attention to us.
“Jeffries didn’t die right away. He almost made it back to his office. If he’d had a cell phone on him, he could have called 911.
If he’d had a gun, he could have taken a shot. A lot of things could have happened, any one of which might have saved his life or captured his killer. If someone did set out to kill him, they probably would have used a gun.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Having said that, I have to admit that most killers aren’t the smartest people in the world. It’s possible someone wanted Jeffries dead and just decided that was as good a time to do it as any other, especially if they were on something.”
“If they’re not very smart,” Samantha Rothstein wanted to know, “why is it so difficult to catch them?”
“If it wasn’t planned, if it was random, if there isn’t any direct physical evidence—fingerprints, DNA—then there is nothing to tie the killer to the victim. That’s the most difficult case to solve, and when they are solved it’s almost always because the killer tells someone what they’ve done.”
Orsini had been following every word. “Tell me, Mr. Antonelli, have you never come across someone of great intelligence who committed murder?”