“So that was unusual for her—but so is suicide,” Boothby said. “She must have been distraught.”
“I brought the police report.” She reached into her large handbag, pulled out a document. “Here’s her note. It says, ‘I can’t face my family anymore. They believed in me, and I betrayed them.’ Ina wouldn’t have said that. I was the only person she considered family, the only family member she’d mentioned in her journal for the past year. I’m one person, not ‘them.’ The only time she referred to family plural was this single entry on the steno tape—where she would never have put it.”
“What about the brothers?” I asked.
“She wasn’t close to them. They were lucky: the law designates them her heirs.”
Boothby’s eyebrows descended in a frown. “So you think someone else wrote the suicide note.”
I scroonched forward on the couch. “Maybe it was written after Ina died, to make it look like a suicide?”
Eyebrows up, then down again, thinking.
“Someone who knew steno machines,” I continued, “and felt safer typing the note than faking Ina’s handwriting.”
Boothby picked up the thread: “Assuming Ina’d been selling the stuff she got from Doak and told a customer about Doak’s plea agreement, that customer wouldn’t want Ina doing to him—or her—what Doak would likely do to Ina. Killing Ina prevents her from revealing anyone to the cops.”
All this theorizing ignited my suspicion: “What else about Ina’s death, Emmy, suggests murder?”
“Read the police report.” She handed it to me. “They found her in the basement of her apartment building, hanging by a wire wrapped around her neck, the other end around a hook in a ceiling rafter. Near her was a stool, an aerosol can of cold-start ether, and a rag. The investigators concluded she strung herself up, then used the ether to anesthetize herself so she’d fall off the stool but not suffer while she was strangling to death.” Emmy looked away. “This is so awful. Poor Ina.”
It was awful, I thought, then pointed to the report. “Says here no signs of struggle. Suppose there were no signs of struggle because Ina was already unconscious when she was strung up?”
“No struggle because she trusted the other person and wasn’t expecting a faceful of ether.” Boothby cocked his right eyebrow up, pointed at me, and turned to Emmy. “Let’s take a look at Ina’s basement. Before suggesting the police got it wrong, let’s see whether what we’re brainifying about makes sense. Tomorrow afternoon?”
“And just what are you three desperadoes conspiring about here?” We all looked up to find Judge Watts leaning against the doorjamb and munching on some grapes, an eyebrow raised in mock suspicion.
“Hi, Gibson,” said Boothby. “Great party! We’re talking to Emmy here about Ina Lederer. Ina was Emmy’s niece.”
He turned to her. “I’m so sorry about what happened, Emmy. Losing a loved one to suicide is the worst kind of loss.”
“I don’t believe it was suicide,” Emmy said. Watts moved into the room and furrowed his brow. “What else could it be then—except … murder?”
“Bingo.” Boothby nodded.
Watts looked incredulous. “Who’d want to murder her?”
Boothby shrugged. “No idea. We’re just brainifying.”
“Wow—murder,” Watts said. “Linwood,” he said to Boothby, “this is both horrifying and intriguing. I’d like to hear your, uh, brainifying when you have a chance—and when I don’t have a party to conduct.” He nodded toward the people in the adjoining room. “Got to go. Again, Emmy, my condolences.”
After Watts left, Boothby stood and held up his glass. “Time to refuel. Emmy, you need to try some of Gibson’s lobster dip. You too, Artie—let’s mingle.”
Ina’s apartment was on the ground floor of a four-story tenement in Lewiston, a dingy nineteenth-century mill town that had been dying for eighty years. Emmy let us in. Ina’s place was neat, but dust on the furniture indicated no one had been there in a while.
She led us to the back of the apartment, then through a door and down steps to the basement. It was a large, open area with brick columns evenly spaced along the length of the room to support carrying timbers. Clotheslines drooped between the columns; a bicycle was chained to one of them; a stool stood next to another. A decrepit upright piano occupied what had probably been the coal bin.
Emmy showed us the hook, embedded in one of the joists, from which Ina was found hanging, and pointed out the stool that Ina was supposed to have used.
“How big was Ina?” Boothby asked Emmy.
“Five-three, a hundred and ten pounds maybe.”
“So how would someone be able to lift her and hold her aloft long enough to hang her off that hook?” Boothby asked me.
“Had to be strong,” I said, “so I’m guessing a man. Maybe he wrapped the wire around her neck, boosted her onto his shoulder, climbed onto the stool, wrapped the other end of the wire around the hook, and let her go.”
“Next question: Why use a wire? Why not some of that clothesline?”
“Clothesline’s fragile, might break. The police report says it was a piano wire, probably from that wrecked piano.”
We walked over to it. Its keyboard resembled a mouthful of rotted teeth, and it lacked its upper and lower front panels. Several strings dangled free of their pins, and some were missing altogether.
Boothby studied it. “Using a piano wire supports the idea of suicide because the means of death is right here.”
Emmy spoke up: “Ina’s apartment is the only one in the building with direct access to the basement. That other door”—she pointed to the rear—“leads to a common stairway for the other apartments. Someone in Ina’s apartment could get down here and back up without much risk of being seen.”
Boothby nodded. “What’s going to happen to her apartment?”
“I’ve got to sublet it. Ina’s lease has another six months to run and doesn’t have a clause that terminates it upon death. So if you’re done, why don’t I show you out? I need to clean it to get it ready.”
As we got into Boothby’s vehicle of choice, a gray 1980s four-door Citroën—another of his iconoclasms—I said, “Judge, the wire didn’t come from that piano.”
“Why not?”
“I know that the longest bass string on an upright is about three feet. To do the job right—sorry—with a stool as short as the one we saw, you need something long enough to wrap around the hook, wrap around her neck, and still leave slack. Like a string from a grand piano.”
“Okay, so?”
“Bear with me. What do you know about cocaine?”
“Between you and me and this gear shift, I did a line once when I was in the army. I felt great for an hour and instantly understood why it’s so popular. And also why I should avoid it.”
“Cocaine makes you feel like a million bucks, doesn’t it? But besides dependence, overuse produces nosebleeds. Snorting too much burns out your nose tissue, which renders the blood vessels fragile.”
“Another reason to avoid it. What’s your point?”
“Judge Watts’s law clerk told me the judge had been suffering nosebleeds. Recently one was bad enough he had to recess a jury trial for forty-five minutes.”
Boothby hit the brakes. The driver behind us blared his horn angrily and swept around us. Boothby ignored him and narrowed his eyes at me: “You’re calling Gibson Watts a cocaine addict?” Eyebrows down, he was incredulous. “More likely he’s Clark Kent and suffering exposure to kryptonite.”
“I’m not calling him anything, but please hear me out. He also has a grand piano. And some of its bass strings were recently replaced, or at least that’s what Julia Austrian thought. The investigation report said Ina was hanged on a bass piano string.”
Boothby was glowering at me, but at least he seemed to be listening.
“This is probably a coincidence,” I continued, “but coincidences always get my antennae quivering. Suppose Judge Watts had been buying cocain
e from Ina, and someone told him about Doak’s plea bargain. He had to have been worried Ina would report him in exchange for a plea bargain, too.”
Boothby was silent. Then he checked the outside mirror and resumed driving. “Watts knows about the plea bargain. I mentioned it at lunch the next day.”
We drove in silence. I looked at him. Eyebrows down: trouble coming.
He stopped for a red light. “A couple of years ago I ran into one of Watts’s law school classmates at a bar meeting in Vermont. He asked how ‘Tini’ Watts was doing. In law school they called him ‘Martini,’ a play on his name, Gibson. It also reflected his love affair with gin.”
“T-i-n-i. As in T-e-e-n-i-e from the diary? Holy shit.” I thought about it. “Are you going to tell the police?”
The light turned green, and he continued driving. “Gibson Watts is a friend of mine, and he’s a wonderful judge. Report this and I’m jeopardizing his career—just try to get renominated to another judicial term after you’ve been suspected of drug use, let alone murder. Right now all we’ve got are some unconnected dots.”
“Judge, let me find out who tunes Judge Watts’s piano; perhaps the strings weren’t changed, or if they were, they can be accounted for.”
“Good idea. Meanwhile, we’d better interrupt Emmy’s cleaning. Best to preserve any DNA evidence the forensics people might find. Suspecting suicide, they might not have scoured the place as thoroughly as they would if they were thinking murder.” He made a sudden, swooping U-turn that would have earned him a ticket if any of Lewiston’s finest had seen it.
A couple of days later I was standing at the sidewalk hot dog stand in front of the courthouse when Boothby came up to me and suggested a walk in the park. I slapped some mustard on my dog and followed him across the street and onto a bricked walkway leading to a large pond in the middle.
“I got your note,” he said. “Fill me in.”
“I located the person who tuned Judge Watts’s piano. She replaced three bass strings a week before the party. She wanted to retune the piano after the strings had ‘matured’—her term—and before the party, but didn’t have a chance. She said those strings were about eight feet long. She left the old ones in Judge Watts’s metal recycling receptacle.”
I glanced at him. Eyebrows amidship: he was listening closely.
“According to the police report, one end of the wire that killed Ina had been cut,” I continued. “The investigators found several bass strings on that old upright piano had been cut off, so that’s where they thought the wire came from. By cutting the wire short you can disguise its origin.”
We walked on until we reached the pond, where several Canada geese were gliding around. We stopped to admire them.
Finally he said, “Well, shit, piss, and corruption.” A pause, followed by a sigh. “I’ve been doing some investigating too. Guess what Watts did before he went to law school.”
“Other than college?”
Boothby rubbed his hands. “I called up that law school classmate of his I’d met in Vermont, and I lied.” He shrugged, a small mea culpa. “I said I was preparing a roast for Watts and needed some dirt about his background.” Brief pause. “Watts was a court reporter in Maryland. His college GPA hadn’t been strong, but he wanted to become a lawyer so to get his nose into the legal community’s tent he chose stenography. A few years later he applied to law school. I guess his experience in the courtroom overcame his college record.”
“So Tini knew how to use a steno machine?”
“Yup.”
So we had the Big Three: opportunity, means, and motive. Opportunity because Watts knew Ina and, if “Teenie” was the same person as “Tini,” Ina considered him a friend. Means because of the piano wire and his steno experience. Motive because of the risk that Ina would turn state’s evidence. If Watts had been using cocaine, it all fit together.
“What now?” I asked.
“Gibson called, inviting me over to discuss Ina. He says he’s shocked to think she was murdered. I think I’ll go. Want to come?”
“Me? Sounds like it ought to be private.”
He turned to face me. “I’m being cautious: it’s harder to, uh, ‘silence’ two of us than just one.”
It was Saturday afternoon, and we were at Gibson Watts’s front door. I rang the bell.
The door opened, and Watts stood there in his baggy day-off clothes. He greeted us with a warm “Welcome, guys.”
“Hi, Martini!” Boothby sounded as enthusiastic as a kid at a circus. He moved forward to give Watts an energetic handshake.
Watts seemed startled, but pleasantly so. “Who hit you with the happy stick? And where’d you learn that nickname?”
“Friends in low places. Your reputation has finally caught up with you.” Boothby was being as affable as possible.
Not me. The Glock Model 26 between my waistband and the small of my back reminded me of the potential downside of this meeting. Boothby wanted to keep it “at a personal and judicial level, in case we’re wrong,” but I didn’t care about judicial levels. I was worried about getting “silenced.” I’d spent some time in Baghdad before law school, and I’d learned not to go unarmed into what could be hostile territory. So I’d borrowed the pistol from an NRA-nut friend. I didn’t have a license to carry it. I hadn’t told Boothby.
Watts ushered us in and directed us to the same study where we’d met Emmy. All of us grabbed armchairs.
“Okay, Linwood, how come the tag team?” He pointed at me.
“We’ve been thinking about Ina. And we need your help. I want to squeeze your nose.”
Watts looked as if he’d been hit with a water balloon. He closed his eyes tight and then shook his head once, violently, opened his eyes, and peered at Boothby. “You want to what?”
“Squeeze your nose. It’s what cops do sometimes when they encounter a coke suspect.”
“What the Christ have you been smoking?”
“Wrong question, Gibson. The question is, what have you been sniffing? We need to know you’re not on cocaine.”
“Cocaine?” Watts moved forward in his chair. “Are you fucking nuts?”
“Gibson, please listen. There are reasons to suspect you of murder.”
Watts started to rise out of his chair.
“Please listen, please don’t take offense.” Boothby motioned him back into his seat. “We’re here because we’re worried about you, not suspicious.”
Watts sat down but squinted at Boothby. His eyes were dark, and his face so tense that he looked ready to explode.
Boothby continued: “Ina was apparently dealing cocaine, and one of the names of her possible customers was Teenie—T-e-e-n-i-e. Ina died hanging from a bass piano string, just like one of those you had replaced. The old strings remained in your possession.”
Watts leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and turned halfway to his left to look out a window. He said nothing.
“A supposed suicide note was found on a steno tape. You know how to use steno machines. And you’ve been suffering nosebleeds, a symptom of many things, including cocaine use.”
Watts continued to stare out the window.
“Ina took down the plea agreement involving her own supplier, so she knew her days were numbered. You knew about that plea agreement. So what does all of this amount to? Nothing, I hope. Teenie could be someone else. I’m here because I’m both your friend and a judge. The Rules of Judicial Conduct say because I don’t know you’ve done anything wrong, I don’t have to report anything to anyone. The only person I’ve been talking to about this is Artie. The Rules say I’m supposed to ‘take appropriate action,’ so here I am.”
His upper body still facing the window, Watts glared at Boothby. “You call accusing me of murder ‘appropriate action’?”
“You bet.” Boothby nodded vigorously. “I want to be wrong. I’m risking our friendship because I’m worried. If you’re not using cocaine, I’ve misled myself and Artie, and I’ll get on my knees
and beg your forgiveness.”
Watts looked at me for the first time, as icy a glare as I’ve ever experienced. He focused on Boothby again: “Ina was probably dealing to a court reporter acquaintance, or to someone who learned how to type a suicide note on a steno machine for the occasion. And Teenie as you spell it is a common nickname.”
Boothby nodded. “You’re absolutely right. So here’s the next issue. Ina’s apartment hasn’t been vacuumed or swept since her death. If you’re not clean, or if I’m unsure, I take what I have to the cops and they’ll start checking it—and you—for DNA evidence.”
Watts stared at Boothby. Boothby stared back. I looked from one to the other and back again. No one said anything. The tension was like ozone before a lightning strike: I could smell it.
Boothby stirred. “If you’ve been seriously snorting and I squeeze your nose—damn, squeeze your own nose—it’ll hurt like hell and you’ll get a nosebleed. If you haven’t, you won’t. Please help us both.”
Watts looked out the window again, put his left elbow on the arm of the chair, and rested his chin in his palm. There was silence. The longer the silence lasted the more my suspicion grew.
Finally Watts gazed at Boothby. “You ain’t squeezing my nose, Linwood.” His voice rose. “Nobody’s squeezing my nose. This whole conversation abuses my integrity, and nobody’s abusing my person as well.” His face got bright red. “You were just leaving, weren’t you?” He spat the last two words.
Boothby seemed ready for it. “Not unless you physically throw me out. Maybe you’re mad because I’ve offended a sensitive and innocent person, or maybe you’re mad because I’ve cornered a less-than-innocent person. I need to know it’s the former. Please, Gibson.”
Watts jumped to his feet. “You’re out, Boothby! Get out of here, and take your lackey with you!” he roared.
It was intimidating how he towered over us as he raged, but neither Boothby nor I moved. The arteries in his neck stood out, throbbing. He was breathing quickly and heavily, and trembling as he glared at Boothby, practically gasping for breath. A drop of blood slid from one nostril. His hand shot into his pocket and produced a handkerchief. More blood dripped from his nose. He wiped it and stared at the handkerchief, then at Boothby, then back at the handkerchief. A moment later his eyes seemed to get wet. He kept staring at the handkerchief. Tears slid down his cheeks, and blood flowed freely from his nostrils. He pressed the handkerchief to his nose and dropped back into his armchair, the handkerchief covering his face, shaking and weeping uncontrollably.
A Study in Sherlock Page 17