by Susan Israel
“I didn’t look at my watch.”
I look at my watch now. It’s 2:20.
“Maybe someone tried to rob him? He didn’t understand much English. Maybe someone tried to rob him and he hesitated and whoever did it thought he was trying to resist…”
“We found his wallet on him, Miss Price. He had close to fifty dollars on him, two credit cards, a green card. He was wearing a gold ring on his right hand. We’ve pretty much ruled out robbery as the motive here.”
“I can’t imagine who would want to harm Vittorio. Not Morgan.” I shake my head. “Definitely not Morgan.”
“They were together for some time?”
“A year. Last night was their year anniversary. They had a party to celebrate.” I’m having a hard time reading what Detective Quick is thinking about all this. He finishes the last of his coffee. “They were happy.”
“It’s possible that someone may not have been happy about them being so happy.” His voice lowers. “An ex-lover. We’re looking into that angle too.”
“Yes, you never know what ex-lovers are capable of,” I mumble.
“Did Mr. Merritt…Morgan ever mention anything to you about people in his or Mr. Scaccia’s past resurfacing?” I ask.
“No,” I say. I’m the one having trouble in that department. “There was some kind of problem Vittorio was having at the restaurant, with someone who worked with him. He was getting annoying phone calls.” Just like me. “Didn’t he—Morgan—tell you?”
“He mentioned it, yes.”
“You’re looking into that too, right?” Quick’s jaw clenches in response. “Didn’t anyone around there see anything?”
“Nobody we talked to so far. We’re going to canvass the neighborhood thoroughly tomorrow.” I envision all of the paintings in Morgan’s loft being lined up along Franklin Street from West to Lafayette. Another guy in plain clothes that are bursting at the seams barrels out of a room down the hall and stops at the door. “I’m getting some water for Morgan Le Fey in there,” he snarls. “Seems his mouth is dry.”
Detective Quick shoots him a deprecating glance, then hunches toward me, trying to suck me up into his dark pupils and make like his fellow detective doesn’t exist. Quick thinking. Quick-tempered. I wonder in what other ways his name suits him. “Here’s my card.” He pulls one out of his pocket and puts it on my outstretched palm. “In case you think of anything else that might be relevant to this case. If I’m not here, leave a message. I or someone else in this department will get back to you.”
“Can I see Morgan now?”
The other detective pauses on his way back and raises his eyebrows at Detective Quick. “Hat trick, you want to talk with him some more?” Quick nods and turns back to me as he stands up. I didn’t notice when he first came in how imposingly tall he is. As the night has ground on, I feel like I’ve shrunk in stature. Maybe that’s it. Everything is too huge for me to handle. “I’m going to go in to see how Morgan’s doing,” he tells me. He doesn’t sound like he’s talking about his health. “I want you to wait out here. I’ll let you know when you can see him. You sure you don’t want some coffee?”
I’m reminded of a time a few years ago when I flew to Rome to study artifacts. The jumbo jet was grounded because of engine difficulty, and the stewardesses served up free champagne; when that happens, you know you’re in for a long haul. I ended up being grounded for four hours. There’s no telling how long I’ll be stranded here.
“No,” I shake my head. “No coffee. Thanks.”
Detective Quick skims my shoulder with his hand as he walks past me, a small gesture of comfort that at the same time is telling me, Stay!
That same hand displaying greater pressure wakes me up. “Miss Price!” I open my eyes and look up at him. My head is resting on a pillow of piled up pink forms on the desk. Some of them flutter to the floor when I move. He bends down to pick them up and puts them in a neat pile in the middle of the desk on top of a cream-colored file folder. “You can see Morgan now.”
“You’re through with him?”
“For now.” His mouth is grim.
“Can he leave?” I stand up and start for the door. Detective Quick gently reels me in and steers me back toward the chair.
“Miss Price, Morgan is very disturbed by what’s happened.” He sits on the edge of the desk. “It’s taken us hours to get anything coherent out of him. We’re going to want to talk to him more, but he’s not in any shape to help us right now.”
“I thought you said he was cooperating…”
“I don’t mean to imply that I believe he’s purposefully holding anything back. There are a few gaps in his story. We’re going to want to talk to him some more when he’s calmed down. He’s in a state of shock right now.”
“I imagine anyone would be, under the circumstances,” I insist.
“We still don’t know all the circumstances, Miss Price.”
“What are you telling me?”
“Do you know if Morgan has ever been under psychiatric care?”
“No,” I shake my head. “I don’t know. He’s always seemed calmer than most of the other artists I hang with.”
“Does he take any medication that you know of?”
“No.”
“As long as you’ve known him, has he ever acted irrationally or exhibited violent or self-destructive tendencies?”
“No.” I feel a sudden pang of guilt. What was it Morgan told me about how he felt looking through the windows of his studio when his work wasn’t going well? Makes you feel like jumping out. But of course I didn’t take that seriously. There were days when I joked about jumping into the kiln. I’d never do it. I’m feeling enough heat as it is. “Can I see him now?”
Detective Quick nods and ushers me down the hall. “Seeing as how you’re a friend, maybe you could get him to compose himself long enough to be a little more cooperative with us. Okay, Miss Price?” he says softly before opening the door.
No ifs, ands, or maybes about it, Miss Price.
Morgan doesn’t look up at first when I walk into the room. His head rests on the rectangular table in front of him; he looks like he’s sleeping or pretending to be. I start to rush over to him, but Detective Quick pulls me back. “Morgan,” he says, “you’ve got company.”
The look on Morgan’s face makes me start to rush over to him again. This time Detective Quick lets me go. “I’ll give you a couple of minutes of privacy,” he says, shutting the door behind him. I don’t turn back to thank him. I cradle Morgan’s head against me as he sobs convulsively into my stone-washed jeans. His arms encircle me clumsily and pull me closer to him like I’m the last life raft on a sinking ship. He’s shedding so many tears the room may get flooded before the night is over. I’m fighting back tears myself and losing the battle. I bend over and whisper into his hair, “It’s okay,” a lame reassurance to be sure because things couldn’t be less okay. My hands clutch him until finally his racking sobs stop and I only feel faint muscular tremors. “Morgan, I’m so sorry,” I purr, “I’m so sorry about what happened…”
“They think I did it.”
“You couldn’t have done it. You would never do anything like that.”
“Try telling them.”
“I did.” I reach out and wipe some of his tears away with the back of my hand. “They seem more concerned with chronology than character right now. The detective I was just talking to said he couldn’t understand why it took you so long to get home.”
“The one who just left? The tall good-looking one?”
I nod. “Tell him. They’ll let you go.”
“Go where, Delilah?” he asks. “Home? Do you think I want to go back to that place?”
“You sure don’t want to stay here.” I look around, knowing we’re being watched, even though the only faces I see are our own, reflected in the mirror on the wall in front of me. “It took me ten minutes to get here,” I whisper self-consciously. “They know how long it takes to get from o
ne place to the other. They probably have a table or something.”
“I walked home. I took my time. I called Vittorio before I left and there was no answer. So I walked and I stopped on the way for a cup of coffee. I don’t even remember where I stopped, Delilah, I was trying to figure out what possibly could have gone wrong since last night because last night we were so…”
“Happy,” I mumble.
He begins to sob again. “And I didn’t know what to expect, you know, when I got home. Whether Vittorio was going to be there or not or how things would be…”
I clutch him again.
“Who’d want to kill Vittorio?” Morgan wails.
“Someone from his past?” I suggest, considering what Detective Quick said to me about the ex-lovers angle. I don’t mention the fleeting suspicion that Morgan brought up earlier of the existence of someone not quite ex. “Is there anyone he talked about who might have…”
“Not unless they came from Rome to do the hit. I was his first and only stateside love that I know of, and it’s been a year, Delilah. The only mail or phone calls he got from Rome were from his family in Malagrotta. I was the one who brought in the mail.”
“Unless it went to the restaurant. What about whoever it was who was calling him from the restaurant? Do you think someone there could have…”
“That would really have made last night a feast to die for, wouldn’t it?” Morgan sniffs. “I told them about it, but they don’t buy it, even that porker who looks like he knows food, if nothing else. They said ‘we’ll look into it’, but they’re acting like they don’t see anyone except me doing it. I could never… I don’t think it was anyone else he knew either. No one who knew Vittorio would do what…”
“Maybe it was someone who wanted to know him. Someone he rejected.” I lick my lips. “Someone who wouldn’t take no for an answer. You just never know…what any one’s going to do…”
“It was probably just someone who hates gays,” Morgan says dully. “Nothing personal against Vittorio. It could have just as easily been me. It could have been him and me. If I’d gotten home sooner. I wish…”
“No!”
“…they’d find out who did this. Not waste precious time asking me, ‘Now where was it you had this cup of coffee, Mister Merritt?’ I think that’s what they think, too. That it’s just a gay thing. And I just happen to be gay and handy.” He points to the door. “They hate gays too. That other detective, that Crisco in a can, said to me, ‘What’d you say your name is? Morgan? As in Morgan le Fey? That was King Arthur’s sister, you know, Morgan. Ever read about the Knights of the Round Table, Camelot, all that stuff?’ and then he started rambling on how errant knights were killed in duels fought to preserve the honor of fair maidens. I couldn’t follow what he was saying, but I knew he was trying to bait me, so I was careful about what I said.” He puts his hands over his eyes. “God, I wish I could help them, Delilah. If I hadn’t dragged ass going home, maybe I would have seen something, been able to provide them with some sort of description, something, but by the time I got there, the area was already roped off with crime scene tape and they were pulling me aside and the next thing I knew, I was here. The whole thing is a blur. And you know what kills me? Once they get it through their thick heads that I didn’t do it, I don’t think they’ll give a rat’s ass who did. Just one less queer, as far as they’re concerned.”
I don’t know what to say. I heard how the detective who interrogated Morgan referred to him outside. But I don’t want to believe he represents the aggregate of the department. I wonder how many other victims that attitude could affect. I feel a chill go up my spine. “What are you going to do when they let you go?” I ask him. “Where are you going to stay?”
Morgan shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m not going back there except to pick up my things from the loft when they say it’s okay. I think I’ll go stay with a member of the family somewhere.”
“Do you want me to call anyone for you?” I look around the room. “A lawyer?”
The door opens behind us at the mention of the word. Detective Quick storms in. He looks more ruffled than he was before, his sleeves pushed up more carelessly, and he immediately gestures to me to leave. “Wait for me outside,” he says, “down the hall, where we were before.”
“He didn’t do it,” I say.
“Down the hall, Miss Price.” Detective Quick ushers me out of the room and shuts the door behind him.
The room isn’t so quiet any more. Another detective is sitting at another desk scribbling notes as a woman with a black eye and a bloody lip mumbles incoherently. “When did you last see him?” he asks. The woman mumbles a brief answer. “You haven’t heard from him since?” She shakes her head and dabs her lip with a soiled handkerchief. More writing. I turn away from them and close my eyes and keep them closed until I sense the immediate presence of someone hovering over me.
“Miss Price,” Detective Quick clears his throat, “you can go home. We’ll call you if we need further information from you. If you think of anything in the meantime, call the number on the card I gave you.”
“What about Morgan?”
“Morgan’s going to spend the night here.”
“You’re putting him in jail? No!” I try to rush back to the room where they’re keeping him. Detective Quick deftly blocks my path, his arms outstretched in the stance of a basketball player thwarting an inbound pass.
“He’s not going in lock-up. There’s a cot in the CO’s office. I’m going to let him get a few hours of sleep, then we’ll talk to him some more and then, if we’re reasonably satisfied with his account of what happened, he can leave. Does he have family here he can stay with?”
“No,” I say, “they’re all in Michigan. He’s from Grand Rapids.”
Detective Quick looks at me questioningly and I expect him to say something else, but he doesn’t, not right away. “Come with me,” he says finally, “I’ll get you a ride home.”
He leads the way down a flight of stairs and up to a group of three officers talking shop in front of a candy machine.
“So what’d you charge him with?” one of the officers asks, crumpling a Milky Way wrapper in his hand.
“Criminal trespass and disorderly conduct and resisting arrest and impersonating a human.” The officer who’s the center of all the attention nods to Detective Quick, then turns to me and keeps looking as he finishes his story. “And all the while he’s telling me he’s going to lawyer up, and I say fine, I’ll bet I can get your lawyer on something too. Hey, Hat Trick, what’s up?”
“This young lady needs a ride home,” he says, then keeps walking, waving for me to follow him. “And I’m taking her. Come on, Miss Price, let’s go.”
15
The unmarked car is department issue and must have been issued a long time ago. The dark upholstery is stained and torn around the edges. I sink deeper into the cracked leather seat, wishing I could be swallowed into the foam filling, thinking how much better off I’d be, how much safer I’d feel, if I were the one sleeping on the cot in the precinct house or in the jail, for that matter. Detective Quick’s eyes, darting in my direction every time he stops for a red light, look darker than anything inside the car or out. “You’re holding back something,” he says as we shoot past Broome Street. “What is it?”
“Hmm?”
“What is it you’re not telling me?”
“It’s not relevant.”
He slams his foot on the brake pedal at the next intersection. The light is green. A horn blares nonstop behind us. He signals for cars to pass and pulls over. I hear tires crunch against the curb. “Why don’t you let me decide what’s relevant, Miss Price. This is a murder investigation. You never know what small piece of information could be relevant.”
“What I’m thinking about has nothing to do with what you’re investigating,” I squirm in my seat. “My own personal problem. I feel guilty for dwelling on it, considering what happened tonight. It seems minor by c
omparison. Well, maybe not so minor. I don’t know.”
Bad choice of words. This confession of guilt sparks his interest for still more information. “Well then, why don’t you take a load off your mind and tell me about it.” This is not a suggestion. He lets the motor run, ostensibly for the heat, but the car isn’t going anywhere. Not yet. He stretches his arm over the back of the seat like a guy on a date who’s trying to get closer, only he stays at that arm’s length. “Maybe it’s something I can help you with.”
“Maybe you can,” I say. “I’m being stalked.”
Whatever it was he expected me to say, this wasn’t it. He checks out approaching vehicles, mostly taxis, in his rearview mirror and then aims his high beam stare at me. “Have you reported this to your local precinct?”
“They’re aware of it.”
“What’s going on?”
“It started with someone calling and hanging up. Then he didn’t hang up, he left voice mail messages instead. Then he progressed to wanting to talk to me in person and leaving handwritten messages. Well, one anyway.”
“You saved it, I hope? And the voice mails?”
I nod. “All that stuff. Yes, I’ve got it.”
“Do you know who’s been doing this, Miss Price? Is he an acquaintance of yours or…”
“I don’t think I ever saw him before. Didn’t recognize him if I had.”
“You saw him, though? You spoke with him?”
“Someone came into the school yesterday…Saturday morning…and started talking to me, and a little while later I found a note tacked up on the bulletin board. I just figured he was the one who left the note. Not that many people go in and out that aren’t students there. Not that many people who aren’t associated with the place even know what it is.”
I’m guessing Detective Quick never knew about it either, before all this came up. Most of the abstract art I expect he sees is forensic in nature, blood spatters on a sidewalk probably the closest he’s ever come to a Jackson Pollock. “What did he say?”