A Memory of Murder

by Nichelle Seely

  Travis walks out of the shelter onto the narrow sidewalk. Takahashi follows him, and I come last, trying not to crowd. Travis leads us toward Marine Drive, where we wait at a crosswalk in silence. When the light changes, we cross five lanes of steaming bug-splattered grills and a parking lot to get to the Riverwalk. The Holiday Inn looms. I feel a shiver across my shoulders, my skin pimpling as though caressed by an arctic breeze.

  Our guide stops at the end of the boardwalk where it joins the paved trail that runs between the hotel and the river. “I got a place down underneath here,” Travis mumbles. He points at the boardwalk. “Above the tide line, some shelter when it rains. I like to be by the river. It wasn’t raining that night. So I laid up over there.” He points to a clump of yellow-flowered Scotch broom. “Thick. No one can see me in there.”

  I don’t doubt it. The broom is woody, gnarly, the tight-packed stems discouraging casual visitors. But someone who wasn’t worried about scratches or stains could wriggle into the copse, snug as a bug in a rug. And invisible to a casual glance. Especially at dusk. I circle the thicket, tramping through tall, dew-covered grass. Assuming Travis had been seated, peering through the stems, the beach where I’d first had my vision is clearly visible.

  I ask, “Do you remember when you saw this happen, Travis? What day it was?”

  He looks at Seth, and shakes his head. “Naw.”

  Seth says, “The calendar is pretty meaningless when you don’t have places to go or people to see. No reason to keep track.”

  I nod, disappointed. Maybe there’s something else in the journal that would help to narrow down the date. Although the fact that it wasn’t raining should help. Because it always seems to be raining in Astoria.

  We return to the shelter. Travis goes back to his room and Takahashi and I stand on the front porch. A few sparrows are twittering on the sidewalk, pecking at some crumbs. They scatter at the approach of a brindle cat who pretends he isn’t on the stalk.

  Takahashi breaks the silence. “It’s important, isn’t it? Travis’s story.”

  “Yeah, it’s important. He witnessed a murder. Victoria’s murder.”

  There’s a sharp, intake of breath before his next words. “We need to be careful with him. He’s fragile.”

  “I know. I can tell. Will he stay here?”

  “A few days, maybe. These guys are called transients for a reason. He’ll start to feel confined and get on the move again, maybe across the bridge, maybe down south to Seaside.”

  I reach out, put a hand on his arm. “Reverend Takahashi — Seth — please, if you can, keep him here. Convince him to stay. Or if you can’t, find out where he’s going.”

  “I’m not his keeper, Audrey. He has the right to go where he likes, when he likes.”

  “I know, but please. An innocent woman may go down for this.”

  He covers my hand with his own. “No promises, but I’ll do my best.”

  We stand for a few seconds. Then I say, “Why didn’t you contact the police?”

  He takes a step away. “Because Travis wouldn’t talk to the police. But you’re not a cop, and he remembered you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I GO BACK home, too agitated even to walk the perimeter. I can’t explain how I feel. Vindicated. Terrified. Relieved. Incredulous. A gigantic mix of emotions that swamp my inner tidelands with a tsunami of feeling.

  But all that feeling is detrimental to criminal investigation. So I push it away, wipe it off my shoes and wring out my socks and try to look at the situation objectively.

  Okay. I have a real witness. Someone who has actually seen and heard what to date I have only experienced inside my own head. Although I’ve been assuming my vision is authentic, to know that the events had an objective reality outside my mind that someone else could and has perceived takes a tremendous load off my shoulders. I feel light as a feather. A pink balloon, bouncing.

  So. Now what? Still far away from catching the guy. Evidence is lacking. Eyewitness, sure. Sorta. Think of the questions from the defense. ‘Was he sober? Of sound mind?’ Would he even testify? I have doubts. He’ll be classed as an unreliable witness at best.

  No shortage of those around here.

  Come up with a useful idea for once, will you?

  Get North to confess.

  He doesn’t seem like the confessing kind. And it’s not like I have access to an interview room, with other cops to help with the interrogation. Plus proof. As in, none.

  So? You’ve got the details. Convince him you know everything. Get him to admit something no one else could know. Jog his memory. Take him back to the scene of the crime.

  I think about that. I mean, what if? But I need more than just my own or Travis’s testimony. I needed someone else to hear and understand what they are hearing. I need some help. Preferably someone official. Another cop.

  Detective Jane Candide.

  Yeah. Good luck with that.

  I have to tie up all the loose ends before I approach her. She isn’t going to be interested in half-baked theories. I look through my scrawl of notes taken over the last few weeks. One anomalous item catches my attention. ‘Welding torch.’

  I’d forgotten to ask Eric why he wanted it. Or needed it. And also why he’d had Jason get it for him. What could you do with a welding torch besides, well, weld?

  Burn down a building.

  I scroll through the internet but am no wiser. Except, now I know what one looks like. It’s a nozzle with a pipe-like fitting that attaches to a fuel tank.

  A pipe-like fitting. A narrow, cylindrical fuel tank.

  The murder weapon for Daniel Chandler. I’d stake my life on it.

  I try to imagine what might have happened. Maybe North approached Chandler about the unauthorized sale of the artwork. Or maybe Chandler had figured out North’s involvement in the murder and confronted him. Whatever, North had shown up with the torch. Not an ideal murder weapon — why hadn’t he brought something more appropriate, assuming this was pre-meditated?

  No, it must have been spur of the moment, using the tool he had to hand. North had made the decision at the scene. He’d either been surprised by something Chandler had said, or hadn’t expected to find him there. But it still seemed unlikely. Why bring the torch at all?

  Maybe North had intended to burn the church then, and Chandler had surprised him. Then for whatever reason, panic, or something else, the artist had left without finishing the job. Only to return a few days later, when Candide and I were inside.

  Right, and then he just returns the thing to Jason? Hello, DNA? The guy’s not an idiot, Lake. Unlike some I could mention.

  No, he wasn’t. But how likely was it that the police would make the connection? It was pretty thin. And even if they somehow got a line on the weapon, it would only lead them to Jason Morganstern. Who’d been fired for stealing tools, and had a record for criminal mischief. Even if he said he’d taken it for North, North would only have to deny it. Morganstern’s word would be nothing against a respected local artist.

  And I still don’t know why he killed her.

  How in hell am I going to get this guy? Before Claire goes down for his crimes?

  I head down to the basement to the incident room, feeling useless and guilty. Check the locks on the walkout door, circle to check the windows. Dislodge some spiders. Spot my coat hanging on the nail where I’d hung it after the fire. Still stinks a bit, but this is the only coat I have that repels water. Lifting it off the nail, something rattles in the pocket. Can’t be keys, I’ve got those. I reach in, exploring, and encounter a handful of flash drives. Memory sticks. The ones I snatched off Daniel Chandler’s desk when Candide was grabbing the computer.

  I run upstairs, tripping on the treads in my haste. Open my laptop and jam the first one into the USB port. Spreadsheets, lists of Ebay auctions, bids and buyers. This is what Claire must have been talking about when she called. I eject the flash drive and shove in another. More spreadsheets, tax records. I’m
not an accountant so I don’t even bother to try to interpret them. Third one has a single text document entitled Creative Healing. I double-click on the icon and the first page blossoms on my screen. Treating Trauma Through Guided Creation by Victoria Harkness.

  This is the book she was writing, the one Daniel Chandler was going to help her publish.

  I stop. For some reason I feel like I’ll be violating her privacy. But this is her voice, her master work, what she wanted to share with the world.

  Plus, she’s dead.

  Yeah, there’s that.

  So I read. Or at least, I skim. Most of the book is dedicated to creative exercises, guided drawing with pencils or watercolors; journaling with prompts; collage and even cooking. Victoria has chosen a multitude of vehicles and tools that most people should have access to, nothing that requires a lot of expense. It’s all designed to help people get in touch with their feelings to better recover from trauma. But it’s the part where she talks about herself that I go over carefully, word by word.

  She describes her childhood, her happy home with strict but loving parents. I barely recognize the literary portrait of her mother. And then I read about her interactions with the neighbor boy. Several years older than Victoria, he began drawing her, and teaching her how to draw as well. They played sketching games, completing each other’s work, or making comic book stories with a cast of characters. She looked up to him, and as they both got older he became more serious about his art and began to pose her. And then he began to touch her. When he was seventeen and she was twelve, they had sex for the first time.

  The Harkness household was religious. Victoria was confused and thought what was happening was wrong, but she didn’t know how to make it stop. And she didn’t want to get her friend in trouble. Her fear of her parents’ disappointment kept her from opening up to them. And then her mother and father started fighting. They split up, and she believed it was her fault. When her mother took her away to Portland, leaving the rest of the family behind, Victoria believed she was to blame, that she was evil, and that nobody wanted to be around her. In one stroke, she’d lost most of her family and her best friend. It took her years of searching and following her inner muse to recover from the trauma. In a final chapter of self-healing, she returned to her childhood town to face the pain and look for healing. For both herself and her abuser.

  I look up from the laptop. The inside of my cheek is sore where I’ve been biting it unknowingly. This explains everything. Why she came back to Astoria. How she could connect so well with the damaged members of her congregation. And it gives me the motive for murder. Not just hers, but Daniel’s as well. Because Daniel read the book. Daniel must have known. Because throughout the narrative are marginal comments from the bookkeeper. One of the last reads “Do you want to name names?”

  It confirms what I already know. Eric North is a murderer. And an abuser. And unless I can do something, he’s going to get away with it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE VISITING ROOM at the Clatsop County Corrections Center hasn’t changed in the course of one day. It’s still frigid, and I leave my coat on. The acrid odor of smoke still wafts up from the material, reminding me uncomfortably of the fire. I wait for Claire, and when she finally arrives, escorted by a guard, I’m shocked at how haggard my friend looks.

  My friend. Because Claire is my friend, not just my client. In any case, I mean to help her in any way I can.

  “Morning, Claire.”

  “Yes. It is.” Clair settles down in the chair opposite. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I know who killed Victoria.”

  “Oh?”

  Claire’s guarded expression isn’t what I had expected. “Yes. It was Eric North.”

  A multitude of expressions cross her face, flitting by too quickly for me to interpret. But she seems surprised.

  “He did it, Claire.”

  She leans forward “Did he? For sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Her next question is barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t Daniel?”

  “What? No.”

  She closes her eyes and puts her head in her hands. “Oh, thank God. I thought…”

  Sympathy, empathy, compassion, they all well up from some fissure beneath my cynicism. Because I understand, finally. That Claire has been afraid her husband was guilty. That she loved someone capable of murder.

  She says, “Do you know who killed my husband?”

  “It was Eric.”

  “He murdered Daniel, too? But why?”

  My reasoning for this is not something I can share, it’s so tenuous. But. “Your husband was helping Victoria with her book, the one about trauma from abuse. She was sexually abused as a child here in Astoria.” I lean forward. “I’ve read her book, Claire. She describes what happened. There’s no doubt. Her abuser was Eric North. And he didn’t want that fact to be published. His life would be wrecked if that happened.”

  “Can you prove it? Can you get me out?”

  “I’m working on that. I think I can get people to listen. I mean, what are the chances that two different murderers are operating at the Church of the Spirit at the same time?”

  “But no real proof? Great. That means I’ll be accused of both crimes.”

  “I’m going to get him, Claire.”

  “You do that.” All the emotion seems drained out of her. She sits back, listless.

  “Listen, Claire. I’d like you to contact your lawyer. Let them know I’ll be coming in to talk to them. Give him proof of reasonable doubt.”

  She laughs. “My lawyer? Only rich white folks have lawyers on call. My public defender hasn’t even bothered to put in an appearance.”

  I’d suspected this might be an issue when I’d asked Link for the address yesterday. “You haven’t had any contact with anyone?”

  “Not yet. My bail hearing hasn’t even been scheduled.”

  I say, “I’m going to find whoever has your case, and light a fire under them. Don’t give up, okay?”

  She looks disbelieving. “Don’t give up? My friend and my husband have been killed. Oh, and they were having an affair. And I’m the one on trial for murder. And you tell me not to give up?” She shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable. Maybe if I was some suburban soccer mom I’d get a break. But come on, a middle-aged bartender wronged by her man? Jesus, Audrey. Why should the cops look any further? I’m the perfect fit. They’ve got me tied up with a bow.”

  “No, Claire, they don’t. I’m in your corner. I know who did it. I just need a little more proof.”

  “Proof.” She scoffs. “They don’t seem to need that for me.” Her gaze slides into the middle distance. “One thing. I’m not going to live the rest of my life in prison.”

  Her assertion fills me with dread.

  The public defender’s office is on the second floor of an office building across from the court house. After leaving the jail, I walk the three blocks in the drizzling mist that blows in from the river.

  The waiting area is full of square chairs that look like they were upholstered in the seventies and haven’t been altered since. The magazines on the table are almost as old. At least the receptionist is a little younger. Her name plate reads ‘Juanita.’ I march up to the counter and ask to speak to whoever is handling Claire Chandler’s case.

  Juanita looks at me over the top of her glasses. “Who?”

  “Claire Chandler. She’s being held over at the jail.”

  “When’s her trial?”

  “Hasn’t been scheduled. She needs someone to put things in motion.” Although now that I think about it, the whole speedy trial thing might not be in her best interests right this second. “I’d like to speak to her counsel. I think — no, I know — she’s innocent.”

  Juanita’s eyes glaze over. Too late, I realize she’s probably heard that line a million billion times.

  I strive to mitigate the damage. “Listen, I know what I’m talking about. I’m working as a priv
ate investigator. I used to be a cop. I was actually working for her when she was arrested.”

  Just then, a youngish Indian man approaches the receptionist from an interior office. “Juanita, have you gotten a copy of the warrant for the Carlisle case?” Then he sees me. “Sorry for interrupting, but I’m preparing for a trial.” Looks back at the receptionist. “Juanita? The warrant?” His accent is low and rolling and slightly British.

  “It’s in your inbox, Mr. Biswas.” She pronounces it biz-WAHZ.

  “Thank you.” He looks back at me. “Are you receiving the help you need?”

  Juanita says, “She wants to know who is representing a Charlotte Chandler.”

  “That’s Claire Chandler,” I correct. “I have some information about her case. I’m a private investigator.” Rinse. Repeat.

  “I’m sorry,” Biswas says. “We don’t have the resources to pay a private investigator. You could go to the police and maybe they’ll turn it over to us, if it’s exculpatory.”

  “I’m not asking for money. I want to help her.”

  He closes his eyes briefly. I get a sense of deep tiredness. “Juanita, who’s on the docket for incoming cases?”

  “I think you are, Mr. Biswas. Ramirez and Jones got the last two.”

  “Has Chandler’s case been assigned to us yet?”

  “I haven’t seen anything come through.”

  “Well, call over to the courthouse and get it expedited.” He looks at me, then glances at the wall clock that reads 11:50. “I have exactly ten minutes to speak to you before my lunch meeting. Do you know what the charge against Ms. Chandler is?”

  I hesitate. “Probably something like first degree murder.”

  “Who did she kill?”

  “I don’t think she killed anyone. The police think she killed her husband.”

  “Premeditated? Or an accident?”

  “Not an accident.”

  “Paid to do it? Torture, multiple victims, prior convictions?”