The Sign of the Book

by John Dunning

  “You’re cute, aren’t you? Nimble too. Have you ever done any fencing?”

  “You mean for real?”

  “Sure, for real. It’s a great sport.”

  “I’ll take your word for that. I usually confine myself to verbal jousts.”

  “I was on a fencing team in college. We even got to the national finals. I bet I could stick you just full of holes.”

  We had reached the door to the book room. She stopped and turned: she must’ve been looking straight up at me but I couldn’t see her face in the darkness. “I am told you were a Denver cop,” she said.

  “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.”

  “You are much too modest, Mr. Janeway. You’re not that old and it wasn’t that long ago. You left some deep tracks when you stomped out of the department.”

  “Easy to find, if all you care about are the newspaper accounts.”

  “So shoot me at sunrise. I did have a colleague in Denver dig them out and fax them to me. But I always knew you’d have your own version of it, which I would be only too delighted to hear. I might even buy you a cup of coffee for the privilege.”

  “By the way,” I said, rather obviously changing the subject, “what’s the judge really doing up here?”

  “Whatever I said, it would just be an opinion, and just between us girls.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “He’s bored, he’s got a gap in his schedule, maybe he just finds the idea of all these valuable books in a house on a remote mountaintop fascinating. As we all do, Janeway, as we all do. But, hey, I agree with you. You could move to have him recuse himself from the case, you’d certainly have grounds. If you wanted to go that route.”

  “I don’t make those decisions.”

  “Whatever you do, please remember: nothing I’ve said here is to be repeated.”

  I heard Parley’s voice from the other room. Miss Bailey said, “Don’t do anything without telling us first. Don’t pick up anything, don’t move stuff around—you know the routine. I know you were in here the other day, but it’s different now. We’re treating this room like a whole fresh crime scene. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then let’s go in.”

  The room indeed looked different today. They had set strobe lights along the perimeter and the scene was harsh-looking, the ceiling garishly white. The bookshelves still looked full of books: on second look I could see that the top shelf had partially been cleared, but at that rate we’d all be here till next Easter.

  Parley came over and said, “Am I glad to see you. We’re gettin’ nowhere fast.” Another man was kneeling near the fireplace, looking at something. “Leonard Gill, the DA,” Parley said in a whisper. “He’s going over everything with a fine-tooth comb. He’s trying to establish some kind of rough value for these things, and none of us has a clue. So far he’s only allowed two boxes of books to be loaded in the truck. Maybe you can speed things up.”

  “I don’t think so. Let ’em get their own expert, if that’s how the wind’s going to blow. I didn’t come up here to make their case for them.”

  “God, we’ll be here all week.”

  “He’ll get tired after a while.”

  “You don’t know this boy. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  We approached the fireplace. The DA was looking at a book. I craned my neck and saw the distinct handwriting on the title page: Martin Luther King.

  “Hey, Leonard,” Parley said. “This is Cliff Janeway.”

  His handshake was abrupt, like everything else about him. On balance, I knew I was going to like dealing with Miss Bailey a lot better.

  “This book worth any money?” he said as if the world owed him a living.

  “Maybe.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. This is some circus you’ve got going here.”

  “I thought you were supposed to help us move things along.”

  “What do you want from me, a signed affidavit? This isn’t an exact science; you don’t just prop up a signature and put an ironclad price on it. That’s not how it works.”

  “Then how does it work?”

  “It takes research. It takes time. You can’t do it here.”

  “Then where can you do it?”

  “If I were doing it, I’d have to bring a ton of reference books out from Denver.”

  “Then let’s get ’em out here.”

  I laughed; couldn’t help myself. “Mr. Gill, I don’t work for you. Whatever values I might eventually put on these books is between me, Mr. McNamara, Ms. D’Angelo, and our client.”

  This snapped him back to reality. “I’m going to have to hire somebody, is that what you’re saying?”

  “I would think so, yes.”

  “Under the circumstances, then, maybe you should leave. You’re doing nothing but cluttering up the process.”

  “And what’ll you do after I’m gone? Assign some whimsical values based on your own vast knowledge?”

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  “It’s you who’s wasting the time. You can be up here for a month of Sundays and you won’t have any better idea than you’ve got right now. Our idea was simply to get the books secured. Get ’em inventoried, get ’em down to the evidence locker, and get a lock on that door. Worry later about what you’ve got. And by the way, you shouldn’t stack books in the box edges-up like that, they’ll get cocked.”

  “Which means what?”

  “The spines will get bent out of shape. To put it in basic terms, you’re damaging the hell out of Mrs. Marshall’s books. I’d advise you to lay ’em flat instead.”

  He motioned to Miss Bailey and they moved away for a confab. Parley and I walked discreetly out into the hall and talked in low voices.

  “Has everything you’ve seen been signed?”

  “So far.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I said. “Martin Luther King.”

  “Is that worth some money?”

  “Hell, yes.” I laughed. “Try fifteen hundred and you won’t be too far off on the high end. But it’s a tricky signature. King is like Kennedy, other people signed for him and left no way for an untrained eye to tell the difference. Secretaries got very good at signing his name.”

  “Why would he let ’em do that?”

  “Because people like King were pestered to death by autograph hounds and book collectors. They allowed their secretaries to sign without worrying about the havoc they might be causing. Evelyn Lincoln signed for Kennedy all the time. Somebody from the campaign brings in a book, it disappears into a back room and comes out signed. Compare it to a facsimile and most times it takes an expert to know the difference.”

  “Man, that doesn’t seem right somehow.”

  “It isn’t right, but it happened anyway. Depended on the nature of the guy in office. Lyndon Johnson signed almost nothing himself; unless it was shoved right under his face, it’s all secretarial and autopen stuff. But anything with Harry Truman’s name on it is probably real.”

  I told him about the burning of Jerry’s clothes in the back-room grate. “Erin wants to keep that quiet for now.” He nodded and we waited some more. In a while Miss Bailey came out and said, “Look, we’re willing to cooperate if you will. Let’s get the books out of here. Make a list and if you’re willing to give us a copy, maybe we can do this reasonably quickly.”

  Parley looked at me.

  “Sure, we’ll share the list,” I said.

  Ten minutes later we were moving books off the shelves as fast as I could check them off against what I had written in my notebook. The money began adding up in my head, a ballpark figure, to be sure. There’d be some surprises, there always are. But at least now the books were safe. At least now I’d have a starting point.

  18

  I got my first disturbing look at Jerry late that afternoon. The victim’s parents had rented a house near the edge of town, not far from where Parley lived.
They had taken what they could get on short notice, and the house had no telephone as yet, so Parley said it would be a drop-in-and-take-your-chances affair. I walked over: two blocks up the main road from Parley’s place, then right on a dirt road for another half mile. Parley had given me a verbal road map and I knew the house when I came to it. It was well back from the road at the bottom of a hill near the creek, barely visible through the woods.

  Jerry was sitting alone in the front yard, watching keenly from a swing as I stopped on the road: a typical kid with a mop of dark hair, wearing corduroy pants and a sweater. Even from that distance I could see awareness in his face, as if somehow he sensed who I was and why I was there. I knew this was impossible but the feeling wouldn’t shake. I came into the yard and said, “Hi, Jerry,” but I knew better than to approach him before going to the house and announcing my presence. I said, “Is your grandma home?” but if he comprehended, he gave no sign of it. I came up through the trees and moved past him, up the path to the front door.

  A woman in her sixties came out as I knocked. “I hope you’re not selling anything.”

  “Erin sent me. My name’s Cliff Janeway and I’d like to talk to your grandson for a few minutes.”

  “What for? He can’t talk.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m aware of that. But we thought it might be helpful…”

  “Helpful to who? She killed my son. Why should we help her?”

  “It’s not a question of why, Mrs. Marshall. We just want to know what really happened.”

  “Isn’t that fairly obvious?”

  “What’s obvious isn’t always what’s true. That’s why we have courts, to sift what people think happened from what really did happen.”

  This could go either way, I thought. I watched her agonize over it for half a minute. “We don’t think she did it,” I said at last.

  “Lawyers always say that. I heard this was cut-and-dried.”

  “Prosecutors like to say that. And newspapers always make it seem that way.”

  “Well,” she said as if momentarily confused, “if she didn’t do it…”

  Her eyes wandered out to the yard, where Jerry hadn’t moved, and I saw a slow-creeping awareness come over her.

  “My God, are you suggesting—”

  “No,” I said quickly. “That’s not even a hint of what I’m saying.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t her, who else could it be?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  She shook her head. I had an urge to tell her that there had been time for a third party to be in that room and her son may have known some shady characters. But I couldn’t say that at this point.

  “Look, Mrs. Marshall, I know this is difficult. I don’t want to make it harder than it already is. I’m hoping you’ll understand the difficulty on our side. We just want to find out what happened.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re going to make out like the boy did it.”

  “Don’t do that, Mrs. Marshall. That’s not fair to anybody at this point.”

  “Then what am I supposed to think?”

  “Nothing, yet. Just let the facts come out.”

  “I understood she was going to plead guilty…”

  “I don’t know who could’ve told you that, but it’s just not true.”

  “She was going to plead guilty. Then you lawyers came, and—”

  I felt the interview getting away from me, spinning out of control before it got started. “None of that is true,” I said in a slightly pleading voice. “Look, I know you wouldn’t want to send her to prison if she’s innocent. Even if there are hard feelings, nobody would do that.”

  I let that settle on her for a minute. Then she said, “What do you think this child can tell you?… This little boy who can’t even speak his mother’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She thought about it. “Am I required to allow this?”

  “Not at this moment.”

  “What happens if I say no?”

  “I could ask for a court order. They’d probably want to videotape it and do it in the courthouse. They might have some psychologist brought in from Denver to ask the questions. I’d rather not do that now, unless it’s necessary.”

  She thought about that and took her time.

  “If I did let you talk to him, I’d have to be there.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’d want to know what questions you’re going to ask him.”

  “That depends on him, I don’t have anything written out. Maybe I’d just want to say hello for now.”

  “I don’t know what good you think that’ll do.”

  “I don’t know either. Maybe none.”

  “If you upset him, if you start asking questions I don’t like—”

  “I’ll leave. I promise.”

  Again she wavered. She was curious now but suddenly a little afraid as well. I could see the fear in her eyes as she stared out at Jerry on the swing. She turned and looked up at me and I could almost read the fear in her face—What if he’s right? What if that kid murdered Bobby, and if he did do that, what’s to stop him from killing us all in our sleep? I wished I could reverse the clock and take back everything that might have put that idea in her head. I wanted to go back a few hours and rethink the wisdom of coming out here in the first place, but there was no going back: there never is.

  “Come on,” she said abruptly, and I followed her out into the yard. Jerry sat up straighter at our approach, like a bird watching an animal it has never seen before. His eyes never left my face: he seemed wary, not afraid, and as we came closer, I noticed a splash of freckles across both cheeks and his nose. He looked like a kid I might have known in my own childhood.

  “Jerry,” Mrs. Marshall said. “This is Mr. Janeway. He just wants to say hello.”

  I sat on the ground across from him and looked into his blue eyes. “Hi, Jerry,” I said. He looked so familiar to me: it was almost spooky, till suddenly I realized that his face was the spitting image of Alfalfa from the old Our Gang comedy shorts.

  “You look like one of the Little Rascals,” I said. “Anybody ever tell you that?”

  I asked if he had ever seen those comedies on TV.

  “They don’t have TV here,” Mrs. Marshall said. “Just as well, judging from what’s on it.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “For what it’s worth, you look like Alfalfa. He was a great movie star, long before I was born.”

  I said, “He’s the one I always liked as a kid.”

  I reached out my hand. “It’s good to know you.”

  “Shake the gentleman’s hand, Jerry,” Mrs. Marshall said.

  Reluctantly Jerry put his hand in mine and I squeezed it and held it for a moment. There was something about this kid: even if he couldn’t show his feelings, I could almost sense the hurt in him. I felt him tremble and I thought, Oh, kid, if there’s any way I can take some of that pain on my shoulders, let me have it, I’ll take it all if you’ll just give it to me. “Don’t be afraid,” I said. “I’d like to be your friend.”

  I reached out to touch his shoulder but he drew back sharply. “It’s okay,” I said.

  I was about to say I was a friend of his mother’s when Mrs. Marshall said, “I told you. Didn’t I tell you you couldn’t talk to him?”

  “His arm seems to be hurt,” I said.

  “It’s fine.”

  But I had a hunch, as strong as any I could remember. Before she could object, I had touched his shoulder and peeled down the sweater, revealing an ugly bruise.

  “How’d he get that?”

  “He fell off the swing. It’s fine, it’s nothing to worry about, leave him alone. You had no right to touch him.”

  I backed quickly away. “Can I ask him about what happened that day?”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “Only if he saw it. If that bothers him, I’ll leave.”

  “It makes no sense. Why ask the question
when you know he can’t answer you?”

  “If I just asked him… what happened to his dad.”

  “You’re going to upset him.”

  “Jerry,” I said.

  “I think you should leave now,” Mrs. Marshall said.

  “Okay.” I was good and goddamned frustrated, but a deal is a deal.

  “It’s been good meeting you, Jerry.”

  Suddenly he grabbed my hand and held me tight. Mrs. Marshall said, “Jerry, you stop that,” but I looked back at her and told her it was okay. “It is not okay,” she said. “How do you expect us to teach him any manners if you come behind me and say that’s okay?” I offered a sad little apology but I was looking at Jerry when I said it. His mouth opened and I had the crazy thought that he was about to speak, and that once he did, all the mysteries of his universe would roll out in a deep, bassy voice. But Mrs. Marshall said, “I think that’s enough,” and I got up slowly and followed her back to the house, giving Jerry a wink over my shoulder. At the door I turned and waved to him.

  Inside, Mrs. Marshall fidgeted nervously. “What did that prove?”

  I just looked at her, which made her more fidgety.

  “You had no right to touch him. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I’m sorry it upset you,” I said. But I didn’t apologize for touching him.

  “What’ll happen now?” she said.

  “That’ll be up to Erin. I’m sure she’d like to keep him out of it but I don’t know if that’ll be possible.”

  “Did he really see what happened?”

  “He might have.”

  “Oh, God. God, what a thing,” she said, and her voice was thick. “Do you actually think he could’ve done this himself?”

  “No,” I said, as earnestly as I could. “Nobody thinks that, Mrs. Marshall, I promise you.”

  In fact, I didn’t know what to think. All I could go by was my gut.

  I looked around at the sparse furnishings. She said, “We had to move in here on a moment’s notice. Good thing we’re retired.”

  “What about the other two kids?”

  “My husband has them. They went downtown for some ice cream.” She looked at the clock. “They’ll be back any minute.”