The Witch of Watergate

by Warren Adler

  “You are mistaken, Officer,” Farber said smugly. “You are referring to Miss Dearborn’s private material, hers to dispose of as she sees fit.”

  “I think we can go now, Officer Evans,” Fiona interjected. The subject was not theirs to debate. But Charleen persisted.

  “Have you seen the material in the computer?” Charleen asked. Fiona’s heartbeat accelerated suddenly.

  “I don’t have to answer that question,” Farber said. He, too, seemed surprised at the depth of Charleen’s probing.

  “No, you don’t.” Fiona said firmly, turning to Charleen. “I think it’s time to go.”

  “Didn’t find what you were looking for, girls?” Farber said mockingly. Fiona grabbed Charleen’s elbow and led her out of Farber’s office.

  “You were challenging him to get into that computer,” Fiona admonished as they stood in the corridor.

  “I was not. I was merely trying to find out if he had tried to get into the computer.”

  “And if you did find out?” Fiona asked.

  The alternatives were dawning on Charleen again. Her answer was a shrug. As always, it was hard to know what she was thinking.

  “I have a question for you, Charleen,” Fiona said.

  Charleen eyes locked into hers.

  “Have you read the statutes on withholding evidence?”

  At that moment, the receptionist poked her head out of the office door and looked toward them.

  “Which one of you is Sergeant FitzGerald?”

  Fiona raised her hand and the receptionist ushered her back into the office and pointed to the telephone on an end table in the reception area. Fiona picked it up.

  “Find it?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “No,” Fiona answered.

  “That’s the bad news,” the Eggplant said.

  “And the good news?”

  It was meant as a facetious question and she hadn’t expected a response.

  “The good news is that we’ve got Polly Dearborn’s killer.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Not to Charleen. There’ll be no living with her.”

  Fiona looked at Charleen, who was studying Fiona’s face.

  “All right, Captain. I’ve braced myself.”

  “Robert Downey,” the Eggplant said. “He walked in here a half hour ago and confessed.”

  19

  ROBERT DOWNEY WAS sitting at one end of a long table in one of Homicide’s nondescript interrogation rooms. The vomit-green paint was peeling and there were large lightning bolt-shaped cracks in the wall. The windows, despite the fact that they were six floors up, were barred.

  He seemed much calmer than when they had seen him the day before, like a man who had made peace with himself.

  “You did the right thing,” Charleen said. “Sooner or later we would have got you.” She had not gloated. To her, Fiona supposed, this was simply the expected course of events, although even she could not have expected this dramatic a denouement.

  “Before you sign your statement, I wanted you to talk with those assigned to the case,” the Eggplant said to Downey. Apparently, Downey had already made his statement to a police stenographer and was waiting for it to be typed for his signature.

  “I understand,” Downey said.

  “Do you feel any remorse for this act?” Fiona asked.

  “None at all,” Downey said crisply. “She had it coming.”

  The Eggplant said, “Officer Evans, would you care to do the honors?”

  She was entitled to that, Fiona thought. It was, after all, her instinct, her theory.

  “Would you tell us exactly how it was done?” Charleen asked.

  “Of course,” Downey said. He coughed into his fist. “It was easy getting in. I came through the garage, hid behind one of the pillars, waited for a car to come through, then just ducked through the gate as it closed. No problem at all. Then I went up the rear elevator. I carried the rope in a shopping bag.” He looked at his watch. “It was just before midnight.”

  Fiona had a yellow pad in front of her on which she jotted down notes. Charleen simply watched the man as he spoke.

  “Getting into her apartment was also no problem. I rang the buzzer. She asked who it was. I told her I was Robert Downey, and she opened the door.”

  “Just like that?” Charleen asked.

  “Oh no,” Robert Downey said calmly, smiling. His complexion was ruddy but had not reddened. Nor did he seem agitated in any way. He could be discussing a tennis match. “We talked through the door and I could tell she was looking at me through the door’s peephole. I took care not to look threatening. I told her that I simply wanted to come forward to set the record straight and that I had new evidence to impart.”

  “And then she let you in?” Charleen asked.

  “Well, it took a lot more time. She probed me pretty hard. I told her I felt foolish standing out there in the hall.” He laughed. He seemed to be enjoying the attention. “I must admit I was pretty persuasive. Finally she opened the door. But she did not stand there waiting for me to enter. She let me in and I closed the door. She was wearing a nightgown and she ran into the bedroom and told me to wait for her in the living room.”

  “Did you?” Charleen asked.

  “Afraid not,” he said calmly. “I followed her into the bedroom, taking the rope out of the bag. When I got to the bedroom, she had her back turned to me while she was putting on a dressing gown. I simply threw the noose around her neck and pulled it tight. She went down easy, without a sound.”

  “And then?” Charleen asked.

  Although it was a ghastly, gruesome act, as he described it, it seemed somehow banal, uneventful.

  “Don’t forget, my objective was to make this look like a suicide by hanging. I had to make sure everything was in its place. I straightened the room out, then dragged her through the apartment to the terrace.”

  “Did you wear gloves?” Charleen asked.

  “Most of the time. I took them off only to work the knot that fastened the rope to the stanchion on the terrace. It was hard to do with gloves on.”

  They had asked Flannagan to send one of his boys to do another dusting to see if they could pick up any prints that had been missed. That report had not come in yet, but they expected it momentarily.

  “Was it you who went to the apartment yesterday posing as her brother?”

  He nodded.

  “A little ridiculous, wasn’t it? But, you see, I had left the shopping bag. It was one of these plastic bags with the name of the hardware store where I had purchased the rope. A store in Baltimore, actually. I was still harboring the hope that I was going to get away with this. Of course, you’d already ruled out suicide, but if you found the bag, you’d surely trace the rope to me.”

  “Where was the bag?” Charleen asked. She was determined to show the others a healthy skepticism. So far nothing had been said to dispute her theory.

  “Actually, I put it behind one of the potted plants. It was out of sight. It was so out of sight that I forgot it.”

  Fiona did not remember looking behind all of the potted plants.

  “Did you find it?” Charleen asked.

  “Yes.” Downey nodded in emphasis.

  “What did you do with it?”

  “I burned it,” Downey said.

  “If it was so simple to enter the building, why did you go to the front desk?” Charleen asked. It was her first stupid question.

  Downey chuckled.

  “There would have been no one inside to open the door. I needed a key.”

  Charleen showed the barest flicker of annoyance.

  “You realize that we’re here to punch holes in your confession,” Charleen said. What she really meant was that she wanted to corroborate her theory beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  “Punch away.”

  “Why hanging?” Charleen asked.

  Again he smiled.

  “There was something . . . well, appropriate about it. Som
ething public. Like she did to others. Publicly hung them.”

  No doubt about it, Fiona thought, the man was convincing. He seemed to have all the psychological implications in place. On the matter of the garroting and the dragging of the body across the apartment, that, too, was convincing, but he might have pieced that together from newspaper and television stories. She made brief notes of her doubts as Charleen continued. Of one thing she was dead certain. Charleen was having a ball.

  “All right,” Charleen said. “You fastened the end of the rope around the stanchion, then . . .”

  “Actually, I spent about a half hour before I put the body over the terrace, simply making sure that the scene would suggest a convincing suicide. As you now know, I made a lot of mistakes. Shows you I’m not much of an expert on these matters. Then I eased the body over the railing. She was either dead or dying at that point. I did not stop to find out. Getting out of the building was no trouble at all. I came out the way I got in.” Again he looked at his watch. “By twelve forty-five I was out.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I went home and slept like a baby. I felt, well, serene, fulfilled. This woman was garbage and I felt that I had struck a great blow for humanity.”

  “When did you decide to come forward?” Charleen asked.

  “Somewhere around four this morning. I realized how important it would be to show the world to what lengths people will go to clear their names after being assassinated by the media. Pamela Dearborn was a murderer. She murdered my father. Frankly, I felt proud that I had struck back. This woman told lies about me and my Dad. In a way, I’d say I vindicated him.”

  It was, of course, the convoluted reasoning expected from a remorseless killer. But so far it was only his word that warranted his act. More was needed. Missed prints could buttress his confession. Of course, that might have been the real reason for his returning to the apartment. Fiona’s mind raced with rebuttals.

  “We’ll see what the tech boys come up with,” the Eggplant said, revealing his own skepticism.

  “He might have put them there when he went back,” Fiona interjected. It was an important distinction and she wanted to be sure it was emphasized.

  “Well?” Charleen asked Downey.

  “Yes, it could have been, although I was quite careful when I went through there that second time. I never took off my gloves. There weren’t any knots to tie.”

  “Problem is,” the Eggplant said, “you can never be sure. The tech boys always miss things, although they do the best they can.”

  “I’m confessing, Captain,” Downey said with a touch of indignation. He had been remarkably cool up to then. Now his knobby cheekbones were growing redder. “I killed that woman. I’m proud of it. I’m prepared to accept whatever punishment is meted out. I can assure you I will die a happy man because of what I did.”

  “You have a lawyer?” the Eggplant asked.

  “No. But a public defender will do if any more paperwork is needed. There is no need of a trial. I’m guilty.”

  No need of evidence, either, Fiona thought with some relief until she remembered the unresolved issue between Barker and Farber. Suddenly, a ray of hope exhilarated her. Now they could destroy the disks and the hard copies. No longer would it be a case of withholding evidence. Simple theft was another matter. All right, it was not a purist notion, but it might satisfy the Eggplant’s pangs of conscience.

  On the other hand, said the little devil’s advocate that lurked in a camouflaged part of her brain, if Barker won in his fight for the possession of the computer, it would ultimately result in the discovery that disks were missing, creating a further mystery. A clever deducer might one day get to the answer. Besides, the whole idea of a three-way conspiracy was anathema to the Eggplant and, for that matter, to Fiona. Charleen, as they had seen, could be an unguided missile. She shook these gloomy thoughts away. First things first, she told herself.

  The Eggplant suddenly motioned them to leave the room, which they did. They talked in hushed tones in the corridor.

  “What do you think?” the Eggplant asked.

  “Open and shut.” Charleen said.

  They both looked toward Fiona.

  “I don’t know.” she said hesitantly.

  “What’s troubling you?”

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I need time to think about it.”

  The Eggplant turned to Charleen.

  “Not a shadow of a doubt?” he asked.

  “None.”

  “I’m inclined to go along,” the Eggplant said. “I’m enjoying the prospect of telling that tough bastard Barker that the Witch of Watergate got knocked off because she ruined a couple of lives. That I’m going to enjoy.”

  “Are we really ready to turn it loose?” Fiona asked. “Convinced beyond all reasonable doubt?”

  “I told you. I am,” Charleen said.

  The Eggplant shrugged.

  “If you think he’s lying, you’ll have to give us more, FitzGerald.”

  She needed more time to dance around it.

  “What about the other?” Fiona asked, meaning the business of the computer.

  “I’ve been thinking about how to handle that one.” He looked at Fiona. It seemed a plea for understanding. “You people have taken enough risks. You’re out of it. I want the material in my hands by tonight. Then I want you both to forget about it. I understand your motives and I think they’re damned fine, but wrongheaded. You don’t need that on your heads. You understand?”

  Charleen nodded.

  “Whatever you say, Captain,” Fiona said, somewhat reluctantly. It was upsetting having to worry about that when she still wasn’t convinced about Robert Downey. She foresaw long nights of second thoughts, lost sleep and worry.

  “Let me have him for an hour, Captain,” Fiona said.

  Fiona and Charleen locked eyes.

  “Do you think that’s necessary?” Charleen asked.

  “I need to be sure,” Fiona said.

  “The man confessed,” Charleen said. Fiona could sense the anxiety beneath the inscrutable surface. Catching killers was all, the root of her obsession. Her understanding of Charleen was growing by the second.

  Fiona turned to the Eggplant and looked him squarely in the eyes.

  “I insist on this, Captain. I want to talk to Downey alone.”

  The Eggplant hesitated, but he did not turn his eyes away. See my determination, Fiona begged him silently.

  “What’s another hour?” Fiona pressed.

  “Because it was my hunch, Sergeant FitzGerald,” Charleen said acidly.

  The Eggplant turned to face her, studied her, then turned back to Fiona.

  “You got it, FitzGerald.” He swept his arm in a wide arc and pointed to the room where Robert Downey sat waiting.

  “Be my guest.”

  20

  FIONA KNEW SHE could put holes in his story, undermine it with technicalities. His counter would be that in the heat of the moment he might have missed a point or two. He had it close enough and the system might buy it. Guilty or not, the media would send it sailing round the world and back.

  “Statement ready to sign?” Downey asked. He sat at the end of the table where they had left him, relaxed and casual. She hadn’t noticed how neatly dressed he was: pressed blazer with gold buttons, clean light blue button-down shirt, a red paisley tie on a field of olive. His hands were delicate, the networks of blue veins visible beneath the pinkish freckled skin covered by reddish hair, the nails clean and clipped squarely.

  “They’re getting it ready,” Fiona said, taking her seat on the chair closest to him, at touching distance. For the first time, it seemed, she noticed his eyes set deep behind his knobby cheekbones. They were hazel, the pupils surprisingly large as they watched her with a feral alertness and anxious curiosity.

  “It got too much to carry, did it?” Fiona asked pleasantly.

  “I feel better with it off my chest,” Downey replied.

&nbs
p; “You seem almost euphoric,” Fiona said.

  “I am. I feel that I have rid the world of a disease. I hadn’t realized it would make me feel so good to confess it. But you have to admit, it made an appropriate statement. Don’t you just love the versimilitude?”

  “You feel you’ve paid her back for what she did to your father?”

  “In spades.”

  “What do you think your father would think about your having done this?”

  “He’d understand.”

  “Did you tell him that you did it?” Fiona asked casually.

  His feral eyes snapped into greater alertness.

  “Why are you asking me this? I’ve confessed. That’s enough. No, I did not tell my father. And, if you don’t mind, I’d like him kept out of this. I did this on my own.” He had straightened in his chair and put his hands palms down on the table. She remembered that gesture from their meeting at his father’s house. He was, she decided, preparing to guard himself carefully. She recalled how uptight he had gotten when she had crossed the boundary he had set for himself.

  “It certainly is a logical question,” Fiona said reasonably. “You could have told him, and that information might have triggered his suicide.”

  “That is a disgusting allegation,” Downey said.

  “Is it? More than the other?”

  “What other?”

  “That he killed himself because of the shame of exposing your incestuous affair.”

  He stood up abruptly.

  “Where is my statement? You have no right to discuss that. It was a lie. That beastly woman dredged up a lie.”

  “A lie that you told in testimony before a court of law,” Fiona pressed.

  “I was coerced by the cult. I did not know what I was doing.”

  Again the knobs of his cheekbones reddened. He was standing at the table, his fingers pressed to its surface, bent almost backward.

  “You deny it, then?”

  “Of course I deny it.” His head shook, his lips trembled. “How dare you?”

  She knew she had to press forward relentlessly now, give him no time to mount a defense, rattle him, force him into an emotional outburst. Still, she wasn’t certain that he had concocted the confession, but she was determined to find out the truth of it.