by John Farrow
Havilland-Clegg cannot resist. “If?” he inquires.
“If … if you don’t mind,” Cinq-Mars says.
“Why should I mind? Fire away. Give it your best shot.”
“Thank you, Ben boy. I shall.”
He waits while Havilland-Clegg sips.
“Religion is a strange beast, don’t you agree? Immediately, people always think in terms of an orthodoxy, or a fixed set of beliefs. Yet the history of spirituality indicates that it’s in continuous flux. Pretty much like everything else in the universe. We keep learning. Many would like to stand still, no doubt. Say this, do that, call it a religion, brand it as being the truth, and if you don’t believe it, rot in hell. Nevertheless, the history of spirituality shows that change occurs, and when it does the era of change can be confusing to people.”
“I feel like I’m back in school. At a lecture. I liked school. Not the lectures.”
“Touché. I’ll cut to the chase. Right now, we’re going through another sea change. What science brings to our knowledge of the universe boggles the mind. What we forget, of course, is that that’s exactly what happens anytime spiritual development occurs—the mind is boggled. Make no mistake, the understanding that’s arriving about the universe is spiritually transformative, for those inclined to take it that way. Usually, when a new religion comes along, it attempts to obliterate what’s gone before, and that’s happening again. History is repeating itself. Monotheism obliterates polytheism, Christianity seeks to obliterate paganism, and so on. That’s all political, you understand, and what was previous survives in its way. The previous is incorporated to a certain extent within the new. You see, the past becomes manifest in the present in interesting ways.”
“You are going on about this why?”
Cinq-Mars opens his hands in a posture of togetherness. “Because, Benny, it’s fascinating. Don’t you think? Like you, I get distracted being at a university. I start having big ideas. Maybe it’s the books everywhere, the discussions, the very idea of an institution dedicated to learning and evaluating and to purposefully challenging the mind. That’s all glorious stuff. Of course, people might think that I’m trying to distract my suspect’s mind by talking like this. It’s true that I do that sort of thing. The more intelligent the person, the more complex are the notions that arise, in large measure so that I can squirm my way under the hood, and mess with the person’s head. Not to you, Ben. I’m not doing that to you.”
For once, Havilland-Clegg gulps his Manhattan. He wets his lips as he puts the glass down. “Or are you?” he asks. “Doing that here?”
“You’re right,” Cinq-Mars muses. “You’re right! You’re clever. I could be. Maybe I can’t help myself. Maybe it comes from wondering why you would introduce the necklace to the gathering this afternoon. To experience that, to better understand it, I introduced you to an aspect of my method. I’m saying to you, I’m messing with your mind to get under the hood, and you—for the moment, indulge me, let’s say that it was you—did you not have a girl today wear the talisman to show off your power. Your attitude is: I show you what I can do, and I can still do it, because you can’t stop me. You show me what you can do, because you don’t think you can be stopped. We’re a couple of egomaniacs, Ben! Do you think?”
Havilland-Clegg seems to be getting his footing, and recovers. “I see. You’re messing with me. What good did it do you?”
“What good did it do you? The necklace? Here today?”
“Ah, but it has nothing to do with me, you see.”
The comment provokes a smile from the detective. “Yes, Benny, and my interest in cosmology and spirituality has nothing to do with you. Except for this. We understand now that all carbon forms, not just people, carry knowledge that they pass along. Evolution and all that. Matter carries and transmits knowledge on many levels including the molecular. Through atoms and microbes and other elaborate and invisible forces, matter learns as it progresses. The quantum of our personal and paltry physiques carries knowledge! Mind-boggling. You, Bennington Havilland-Clegg, transport knowledge, every atom in you does, and my job is to extract that knowledge, to reveal it to the light of day.”
That supercilious smirk is back. Perfect.
“Go ahead, Cinq-Mars, tell me what you know.”
“If you insist. So you know, Ben, when they leave today and find themselves off campus, wondering where you are, Mr. Hanson Parker from New York and Mr. Al McBride from Kentucky will be placed under arrest and questioned at length. Be comforted, knowing that you’re not in this alone.”
The smugness abruptly vanishes from his visage, and his skin tone is pallid. This is the first mention that his possible coconspirators are known to the police.
“I know that you wrote the directive. Breached Run! Trouble is, the perfect crime becomes imperfect here. The message was meant for the boy, for Vernon Colchester. Did you know? That’s why he never showed up at his safe house, to be caught with the shot and butchered body of Malory Earle. I suppose your thugs were going to bop him on the head. Smear his hands and clothes in the woman’s blood. Report him. He didn’t get to the tree on time, where messages were exchanged. Professor Toomey got the message instead and I think he was flummoxed by it. A kid disciple of his says something has been breached and he’s supposed to run? What’s that about? Ah, but if the boy had received the message, that would mean his mentor was either in a jam or merely wanted to test him, so he’d run to the safe house. That’s how things went awry there.”
Havilland-Clegg permits his hands to rise slowly. “Safe house? Messages in a tree stump? Is this supposed to mean something to me?”
“Tree bark.”
“Whatever. This has nothing to do with me.”
“Of course it does, Benny. Didn’t you recruit someone to spy on Vernon Colchester, to figure out why he was spying on you?”
“Who did I recruit?”
“Seriously? Do you think I don’t know?”
“If I don’t, how do you?”
“Addie Langford.”
“Who’s that? Oh. Oh. The dead girl. I see. She was my recruit, was she? Precious.”
“That’s how you gained her confidence,” Cinq-Mars reveals, and it’s questionable as to who is listening more keenly, the accused or the attending officers of the law. “That’s why she revealed Vernon’s secrets to you. That’s probably why she had an affair with Vernon in the first place. Boys weren’t her thing, you know, appearances to the contrary. That was how you were able to send her up a clock tower to meet a stranger, her future employer, she thought, without putting up a fight. Why did she carry on with Vernon, then break his heart, when she’d rather find a woman to love? She liked her hetero identity, always talked about her boys, then took her girlfriends to ground because they mattered more to her. Or maybe she was genuinely bisexual. The thing is, she was being recruited by you, just as Vernon was being recruited by Toomey.”
“And what, pray tell, was I recruiting her for?”
“What you told her is between the two of you and doesn’t interest me. You seduced her with an adventurous idea for a life of undercover work that captured her imagination. Young people are often susceptible to that sort of offer. You were the person she was relying on to give her a job. She probably crossed the bounds by telling her parents that she had a job lined up. All hush-hush, mysterious. As to what you were actually recruiting her for, that’s obvious. To die. To be your victim.”
Havilland-Clegg laughs a little, sips his drink again. “If it were not for the sordid accusations you could bring upon me, which I admit give me pause, I’d almost enjoy being in court while you attempt to make such a case.”
“You won’t. Enjoy it. Trust me. As we said, Homeland Security is involved, as well as the FBI. Can you honestly say that you and your pals haven’t left a digital trail behind? In what sour, perverted little chat room did you find one another? The small, frail, hand-shaking diplomatic, now financial adviser, with the strength of a mouse, the run
t of the mouse litter, too weak to fulfill his rape fantasies without help. The tire man from Kentucky with the strength of an ox who wants to murder women, yet who isn’t willing to do it on his own because he has too much to lose and he’s smart enough to know that he’s not smart enough to get away with it. And then there’s you, the genteel heir, who could, if you wanted to, pay for sex in any of its myriad forms. Except for the one form you desire most. Your bout with cancer creates urgency, life is short and unpredictable, if you’re going to do what you most want to do then you have to get on with it. You don’t have it in you, nor do you have the desire, thankfully, to kill or to rape a living, breathing, fighting-back woman. Any physical engagement with a living person makes you ill. But you can now indulge your deepest desire, to love in your own sick way, a girl, a beautiful woman, who is comfortably, conveniently, dead. Not breathing. Inert. A woman who does not respond to your touch in strange and frightening ways. You arrange to have one man abduct, and another man rape, leaving each of you with airtight alibis if the crime is viewed as a single event committed by one person. Then the first man returns to commit the murder. In this scenario, you are left with the remains to abuse to your heart’s content.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Of course not. You have a different aesthetic. You doll her up, dress her up, put on her makeup, grace her throat with a talisman as tribute to your own brilliance and possession of her. Perhaps to hide the ligature marks, the only imperfection.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant that I wasn’t involved.”
“You rape the dead, Benny. It’s what you have always wanted to do, and now you’ve done it. Do you care to explain yourself, if you can? You’re not spiritually inclined. I am, and Benji, you may feel the need to unburden yourself of your loathsome desires.”
For a few moments, the combativeness of the man’s nature is evident, lurking under the skin, ready to jump. He takes a moment to regain his self-control, and with it, reverts to being smug.
“What?” Cinq-Mars asks. Seated beside him, Chief Till has been sitting back, observing this play out, beginning to grasp how the whole dire crime was orchestrated. Yet he’s aware that the premise has holes.
Their suspect brings one up. “I’ll grant you that your theory is elaborate, Cinq-Mars. I’ll admit that what frightens me here is that it just may be compelling enough to have people believe it. Fair-weather friends, for instance. This story goes out, I may not be trusted again. I’ll grant you the power that you have over me at the moment. However—” He pauses for effect. “I point out again, that the total lack of hard evidence won’t allow this innuendo—it’s no better than that, you’re aware of that yourself—your innuendo won’t pass muster in a court of law, if your charges even get that far before being tossed. I am innocent of these outrageous accusations, Cinq-Mars. What you’re doing is hoping that you can scare a guilty man into a confession. That won’t happen, not because I’m not scared, you do frighten me, but because I happen to be completely, and utterly, and totally innocent.”
In receiving the statement, Cinq-Mars rocks his shoulders, neck, and head slightly from side to side, and checks with his two colleagues. Then all three stare back at their suspect.
“Benny, no one is. Innocent,” Cinq-Mars attests. “Captain Hammond has a request.”
Havilland-Clegg looks at the trooper.
“Would you kindly show us your elbows?” Hammond asks.
“What? No. Why? I’m not showing you anything.”
“Sir, I can easily have the sleeves of your jacket and shirt cut off, if you prefer.”
That threat hangs in the air a moment.
Cinq-Mars says, “I’m pretty sure we can make it easier on you, Ben. Show us only your right elbow. I remember the circle made on the platform by the forensics team. For the live rape, I believe her hands were tied to the railing, so we know the angle of the body. A jury will be impressed by these details. Since you were dealing with a dead body, it’s likely that you untied her. To allow her to be more loving with you. But still, it’s in a certain position. Your right elbow should suffice. Ben. If you please.”
He takes his time. Removing his jacket, he folds it over his seat back, careful not to create any creases. He unfastens a cuff link on his shirt, which he tucks into his jacket pocket for safekeeping. Then he says to Cinq-Mars, “It’s Bennington. You can call me Mr. Havilland-Clegg.”
“I know. Speak the truth, I’ll use it.”
The man’s right elbow is exposed. Hammond leans in close to it.
Cinq-Mars, as well. “Partially healed. Only partially.”
“A skimmed elbow is not a sign of guilt,” Havilland-Clegg remarks.
Without him noticing, Hammond has taken out a penknife, which he flashes quickly and takes a speck of skin and a dribble of blood from the man’s elbow.
“Hey! What the fuck! You can’t do that!”
“We just did. Relax. Elbows don’t hurt. Anyway, if you’re innocent, your DNA will be your best defense. You only need to be concerned if you’re guilty. This isn’t for the courts. Just for us.”
He has no argument to prevail in the matter, and the man unrolls his sleeve. Before he attaches the cuff link again, Cinq-Mars asks to see it. He examines it under a lamp. Then hands it back to him and watches as the man attaches it.
“Berman topaz,” Cinq-Mars says. “From Brazil. That’s the one stone that makes no particular sense in the necklace. The stone in your cuff link is the same. Berman topaz.”
“Coincidence.”
“Hardly. It fortifies the body against disease. You’ve been feeling the need in the past year to take help wherever it can be found. The rest of the necklace is a paean to love, death, and crossing over. My expert calls it a map. Maybe. We might study its geographic notes to see if they conform to times in your life. I think it’s about death, and love, and love in death, loving death, and equating death with love. I guess I was wrong, huh? You’re a spiritual man in your own way. In an evil way.”
He sits again and, with a rather stunning display of confidence, sips from his drink. “I could use another.”
“Enjoy. It may be your last ever.”
“I think not, Cinq-Mars. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, as absurd as your argument may be, that I am guilty of what you’re accusing me of.”
“Sure. Let’s say that.”
“Which means I’m guilty of abusing a corpse. I agree, that puts a dent in the social calendar. Fewer invitations. And yet, ask yourself, how much time do I get for that? Five years? Max? Three? First offense, how about fourteen months? Ah, with a great lawyer? Thirty days and time served. Time off for good behavior. Community service?”
“Conspiracy to commit murder,” Hammond adds, a remark greeted by a scoff.
“Yeah. Good luck proving anything close to that. My lawyers against your district attorneys. What are the Vegas odds, do you think?”
“Ben,” Cinq-Mars advises him, “and you’ll be Ben with me until you speak the truth, I understand that that was your plan from the get-go. McBride murders both women, one for you, one for his own pleasure. Parker kills Toomey. You gave him an assignment. That’s the price to pay for raping a beautiful young woman if he wants to get away with it, scot-free. Squeeze a trigger. Put a bullet in Toomey’s brain. He’s all paid up.”
“If this—Mr. Parker, is it?—killed this guy Toomey, that’s on his head, not mine.”
Cinq-Mars rocks his shoulders as though taking that into consideration. “Yeah. He only got him in the throat anyway, but still, he did his part. It’s on his head. Lets you off the hook. Agreed. You’re in the clear, except for the abuse-of-corpse issue.”
“Hypothetically, if I’m convicted on that bogus charge, if things don’t go my way, I’ll probably be out in six months. Worst case.”
“Hypothetically. Give or take. Yet the matter has gone awry, Ben. You didn’t pin suspicion on Vernon Colchester, as planned. That was meant to cover your three
asses for as long as you were up here in the north country. You were forced to put the necklace into play at the cocktail party, it wasn’t only for ego. Apart from everything else, Plan B, you cooked up a conspiracy where a couple of thugs did it. Pin the blame on two dead ex-cons. A good lawyer can swing that if you got into trouble. After all, you had the thugs deliver the necklace the other day ahead of the cocktail party, you made sure we picked that up on a camera, then you had them throw a boy from a speeding vehicle. They were being set up, all part of your perfect crime. That’s done with now.”
“Your avid imagination.”
“You don’t like my theory?”
“Doesn’t hold water.”
Cinq-Mars chuckles. “What does, hey? After all the rain we’ve had. Okay, another theory goes like this. You put the necklace on the neck of another young woman to tantalize the senses of your coconspirators. How’s that? Keeps them interested. They get keen on a next time and that keeps them under your thumb today. You bastard. Of course, that’s not going to happen now. Benny, I’m going to suggest to my esteemed colleagues that they pursue murder charges on the three of you.”
“Fat chance,” Havilland-Clegg determines. He bolsters his opinion with a grunt.
“McBride,” Cinq-Mars continues, “for Addie Langford and Malory Earle, Hanson for Lars Toomey, and you, Benny boy, for your two henchmen who have gone to their negligible reward. Before you bring out that smug, very unattractive grin, may I inform you of something that you don’t yet know? For a change of pace?”
The man stares back at him, confident still. “Just don’t bore me.”
“I promise. Benny, when you arrived back at your little hideout in the woods, one of the men recorded your arrival on his smartphone. He spoke into it as well. If shit happens here, this guy did it. That’s what he said. I don’t know why he didn’t trust you, Ben. Do you? What possible cause would he have? He recorded that message, took his little video of you showing up, time stamped, that was a bonus, then he put the phone out of sight. My God, but that’s going to impress a jury, don’t you think? You’ll like this part, too, it may be a comfort to you. The index finger of his right hand was on the trigger of his gun. No kidding. When we found him. Good thing you shot him first, Benji, because he was ready for you, he was wary. He nearly saved us a lot of trouble. Fortunately—for you, not so much for us—he hesitated.”