Victims

by Collin Wilcox

“I beg your pardon?”

  “He botched it,” she repeated, still staring with dark, brooding eyes in the direction of her expensive view. She sat forward in the chair, legs crossed, elbow propped on one knee, chin propped on the palm of her hand. The hand was gracefully shaped, with long, expressive fingers. But a network of blue veins bulged across the back of the hand. And the fingernails were bitten to the quick.

  “He tried to steal John, and he got caught. And—” Incredulously, she shook her head. “And he killed a man, for God’s sake.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Yes …” She said it ironically, mock-sagaciously. “Yes, Lieutenant, it surprises me. Gordon has his faults. He’s made mistakes, God knows. But I never thought—” She broke off, shaking her head. I saw her eyes leave the view and steal toward the coffee mug.

  “You never thought he’d kill anyone. Is that it?”

  She nodded: a slow, loose inclination of her handsomely shaped head. As the minutes passed, it was increasingly obvious that she was drunk. Surreptitiously, stylishly drunk.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s it.”

  “He probably didn’t do it intentionally. We think he was frightened. Your father hired a guard. Charlie Quade was his name. We think he went after your husband. Maybe Quade even shot first. So it might not be as bad as it sounds.”

  “My ex-husband, you mean. He’s not my husband. Not any more.”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  Still with her chin propped in the palm of her hand, she turned in her chair to face me. I watched her eyes narrow as she stared at me, thoughtfully frowning. Finally she said, “Do you think he did it? Committed murder?”

  “I think he probably fired because he thought he was in danger. As I said.” I hesitated, then decided to add, “He should be able to plead self-defense.”

  “Did he have John with him when he killed this man? Was John there? Right there?”

  “We think he was, Mrs. Kramer. That’s not what your husband says, though. He says they’d already left the house. He says they were outside on the driveway when the shooting started.” I let her think about it for a moment, then said, “John should be able to tell us something. That’s one reason I’m here. I’d like to talk to John. I’d like your permission to talk to him.”

  Instead of responding to the request, she said, “If John was there, inside the house, he must’ve been terrified.” She spoke softly, musingly, with no apparent distress or emotion. It was as if she were talking about someone else’s child, not hers. Why, I wondered, had she been so angry a few minutes before, learning that John had been taken to the Youth Guidance Center? Was it because she resented his being forced to spend the night with delinquents?

  Or was it because her brief burst of indignation had drained her of emotion, left her bereft of further feeling?

  She was sitting motionless now, staring vaguely off across the large, elegantly furnished room, her eyes unfocused. Her momentary preoccupation gave me a chance to look at her more closely. She was probably about thirty-five. But already alcohol had blotched her skin and prematurely lined her face. The closely cut slacks revealed loose, slack flesh across her stomach and over her hips. Beneath the expensive sweater, her breasts had begun to sag into premature middle age. Ten years ago she must have been a long-legged, graceful beauty. Ten years from now, her looks would be long gone.

  Finally she said, “I’m trying to imagine what happened—what could’ve happened. But—” She shook her head. “But I can’t get it straight in my mind.”

  In detail, I described where Quade’s body was found, and what the physical evidence seemed to indicate. Then I told her exactly what her father said he had seen and heard. Next I described Guest’s movements in the minutes before and after the murder. Finally, I paraphrased Kramer’s testimony. As I talked, she kept her eyes fixed on my face. But, once again, her expression revealed nothing: no anxiety, no horror, no calculation. Nothing. She simply listened.

  When I finished she sat silently for a moment, her eyes once more slipping vaguely away from mine. Then she began speaking in a dull, lifeless voice. It was a voice without hope, as empty as her eyes. The earlier assertiveness, the finishing school willfulness seemed suddenly to desert her, leaving her confused, defenseless.

  “I never thought anything like this could happen—nothing like murder. It—it all seems like a cheap movie, one of those movies without a very convincing plot. I mean—” Her gaze wandered back to meet mine briefly, then wandered off again. “I mean, it doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

  I decided not to answer. She was obviously on the point of rambling off into a typical alcoholic’s maudlin meandering. And experience had taught me that, if I listened well enough and long enough, and didn’t interrupt, I might eventually learn more than I could if I questioned her directly.

  Now her face revealed some small trace of expression as her lips twisted into a kind of wan, exhausted smile. “I always knew, I suppose, that it would end badly. My life, I mean. Or, at least, I always suspected it—during those times, that is, when I allowed myself to speculate on the future. Which isn’t often, as you might imagine. I mean, I learned long ago how dangerous it is, to think about what’s happening to you—and especially, what could happen to you.” She broke off, suddenly looking at me directly. “You must know what I mean. You have a—a bruised look, like you’ve seen too much of what’s going on inside your head—or your life, or whatever.” She shook her head, then looked away again. “People think they can control their own destinies. They think that if they’re good enough, or lucky enough, or smart enough, they can change what’s going to happen to them. But they’re wrong, of course. They can’t. We’re all of us pre-programmed. So if we stop to think for a minute, we can predict what’ll happen. Except that nobody stops. Nobody thinks. It’s too painful to think. So we just go on hoping that, the next time, it’ll work out. Except that it never does. I knew when I married Gordon that it would never work out. If I’d taken one minute—sixty seconds—to think about it, I could’ve plotted the whole marriage, from beginning to end. But I didn’t, so I couldn’t. I thought that a baby would make a difference.” Her lips twisted in another wry, wan smile. “I fell into that old trap. Gordon wanted the child, you see. He’s Jewish, so he—” Suddenly she hiccupped. Then, as if the hiccup triggered a connected reaction, she reached for the mug and gulped down two noisy swallows. She put the mug down and sat looking at it for a moment. Then she said, “There’s booze in that cup.” She raised her eyes to mine, saying, “You know that, don’t you? I can see it in those loser’s eyes of yours. You know.”

  As we looked at each other, a message was exchanged. It was a mute confession, a silent recognition that, yes, we shared a secret, she and I. We would never talk about it, never define it. But we knew that the secret we shared—and the secret behind the secret—would control our lives forever. Suddenly I realized that, incredibly, my wayward thoughts had taken me back to the kitchen of my parents’ house. I’d just come home from high school, from freshman football practice. I’d found my mother sitting at the kitchen table, crying. She’d just returned home from work, just found my father’s note, lying on the table. He was leaving us, he said. He was sorry.

  “Did you know that your husband intended to try and take John from you?” I asked.

  She nodded slowly, then vaguely shrugged. “I knew what my father told me.” Her lips twisted again, sadly mimicking a smile. “That’s the trouble. That’s always been the trouble, I suppose. All of my information comes from my father.” She sat silently for a moment, then said, “He did my divorce. My father, I mean. And that was the trouble, you see. It was like the Treaty of Versailles.”

  I frowned. “The Treaty of Versailles?”

  “Gordon had nothing left, after my father got through with him. No money, no business left—and no visitation rights, either. Not really. So he had to leave town. My father saw to that. Literally, my father drove him out of t
own. So whenever Gordon got his life put back together, he’d naturally want to get his pound of flesh back. Just like the Germans did, after the First World War. If it hadn’t been for the treaty, you see, then we’d never’ve had Hitler. And—” She hiccupped again, smiled sadly again, shrugged again. “I’m a history buff, you see. Or, at least, I used to be a—” She broke off, obviously struck by a sudden thought. I saw her eyes sharpen. Her mouth came spontaneously open as momentary shock penetrated her alcoholic bemusement.

  “Maybe Gordon thought it was—”

  I waited for her to finish it. Speaking in a hushed voice, her eyes searching mine, she said: “Maybe he thought it was my father, when he shot.”

  “Yes,” I answered, “I thought about that. It would make sense out of what happened.”

  “Except that Gordon’s not a killer. For one thing, he’s too smart. He’s tough enough to kill someone, maybe. But he’s too smart to do it. He was a street kid, you know, when he grew up—a Jewish street kid. So he—”

  I heard the sound of a buzzer. Someone was at the front door. I looked at Marie Kramer inquiringly, but she waved a slack hand. “Bruce will get it.”

  “Is he the bodyguard your father hired?”

  She nodded. “That’s right. Bruce Durkin.” She smiled, mockingly lascivious. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

  Remembering Kramer’s statement that Marie Kramer hit the singles’ bars on the weekends, I nodded knowingly.

  With the leering, boozy smile still in place, she said, “He lives downstairs. There’s a small apartment down there, completely self-contained. In case you were wondering.”

  I was writing “Bruce Durkin” in my notebook when a boy came up the stairs, followed by a well dressed, middle-aged man. The boy, of course, was John Kramer. I watched him come up to the head of the stairs and stop. Standing motionless, he looked first at me, his dark eyes solemn. Then he turned toward his mother, who had risen unsteadily to her feet. For a moment the two faced each other. Then, awkwardly, the woman moved toward the boy. She steadied herself with a hand on the back of her chair, as if she were unwilling to leave the security it offered. The boy took one hesitant step forward, then another. Now he stopped, watching her with his dark eyes. His expression revealed nothing.

  As Marie Kramer closed the few feet between them and stooped to put her arms around her son, the image of a stage play returned: the hesitant actress, unsure of herself, acting out lines from a half-learned script. The boy didn’t return her embrace. He waited calmly until she’d dropped her arms and stepped back. Then he announced, “We rode in a police car, all the way across the bridge, from the airport. I sat in front. Right by the radio and the shotgun.”

  “Do you want something to eat?” Marie Kramer asked.

  “It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Did I miss the cartoons?”

  “I—” She blinked. “I’m not sure, John. Do you want to—?” She moved her head toward a flight of stairs that led up to the house’s third level. The meaning: he could go to his room and watch TV.

  “I want some chocolate milk and cookies while I’m watching.”

  “Yes. All right. Here—” She put a hand on his shoulder, turning him away from us. “Here, I’ll get it for you.”

  But he shook off her hand, turning to stare at me with his large, dark eyes. Irrationally, his eyes reminded me of the CARE posters that asked for food contributions to underprivileged children in foreign lands.

  “This is Lieutenant Hastings, John,” the woman said, still standing awkwardly beside her son, still weaving unsteadily on her feet. Still unable to touch him with a mother’s caress. “He’s a policeman, too. Like the—” She broke off, frowning. She’d forgotten what she’d meant to say.

  I smiled down at the boy, saying, “One of the reasons I’ve come, John, is that I’d like to talk to you—if your mother’s willing.”

  Before either the woman or the boy could speak, the well dressed man stepped forward quickly. He produced an alligator card case, handing over a business card with a smoothly practiced gesture.

  “I’m Michael Carmody, Lieutenant. I’m an associate of Alexander Guest’s.” He waited for me to glance at the card, then turned to Marie Kramer. “If you and John are going to be busy for a few minutes, Mrs. Kramer, I’d like to speak to the lieutenant.”

  She looked at the lawyer, looked at me, then looked down at her son, who was still staring impassively at me. Finally she nodded. She did it tentatively, uncertainly—as if she were accustomed to taking orders that she didn’t understand.

  “I don’t want any milk or cookies now,” the boy said, planting his feet firmly on the white wool carpet. He didn’t intend to move. “I want to talk to him.” He raised his arm full length, pointing at me with an imperious forefinger.

  “John. Please. Michael—Mr. Carmody—wants to talk to the lieutenant.” Tentatively, she put her hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go. Let’s—”

  “No.” Vehemently, he shook his head. “He said he wanted to talk to me. He just said it.”

  “John—” I stooped, lowered my voice. “You go with your mother. Later, we’ll talk. I promise. Before I leave, we’ll talk.”

  “Will you show me your gun?”

  I looked at the woman, searching her face for a reaction to the boy’s request. When she made no visible protest, I nodded. “Yes.”

  “And your handcuffs, too?”

  “Yes.”

  Dark eyes slightly narrowed now, face puckered with suspicion, he stood his ground for a moment, making up his mind. Then he nodded: a decisive, businesslike bobbing of his small head. “Good.” He turned abruptly and led the way to the stairs. Marie Kramer smiled at me, grateful for my help. It was our first moment of full, person-to-person contact. Then she turned and followed the boy upstairs to the third floor.

  Carmody walked quickly to one of the huge windows, the furthermost point in the living room from both staircases. Lowering his voice, he said, “You realize, of course, that you can’t interrogate John—not without parental permission.”

  “Or a court order.”

  “Yes. Well, I’ll check with Mr. Guest. But I doubt very much if he’ll approve of your interrogating John. Not now. Not so soon after—last night.”

  “Mr. Guest is John’s grandfather. Not his father. Legally, there’s a big difference.”

  “Where the boy is concerned—” The lawyer glanced over his shoulder toward the upstairs staircase. “Where John is concerned, Mr. Guest and Mrs. Kramer see eye to eye. Always.”

  I let a long, heavy moment of silence pass while I stared at him—and while I made up my mind how to handle his objections. Finally I decided to say, “I promised to talk to him, promised to show him my gun. I’ll do that—now. Right now. But I won’t interrogate him about what happened last night. Not without checking with the D.A. And, certainly, Mrs. Kramer will be present during the interrogation.”

  “I’d like to witness the conversation you’re going to have with him now.” He made it sound like a command, not a request.

  I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  With the confidence of someone who was familiar with his surroundings, Carmody led the way up to the third floor and down a short hallway to John’s room, where the TV was blaring. While the mother and the lawyer looked on, I sat beside John on the boy’s bed and unholstered my revolver while Carmody turned the TV down.

  “The first thing you always do,” I said, “is unload the weapon.” I swung out the cylinder and showed him how to eject the cartridges. I put the cartridges in my jacket pocket, swung the cylinder back into place and held the revolver in the palm of my hand. “Now it’s safe. You can see it’s safe. And that’s why policemen carry revolvers, instead of automatics.” I looked at him. “Do you know the difference between a revolver and an automatic?”

  Promptly, he nodded. “Sure. An automatic has the bullets in the handle. And you don’t have to coc
k it. You just keep pulling the trigger.”

  Surprised, I nodded. “That’s right. Where’d you learn about guns, John?”

  As if the question disturbed him, he looked quickly away, refusing to answer. I looked at him thoughtfully for a moment as I gripped the pistol for firing, pulling back the hammer and aiming at a cartoon figure on the silent TV screen. When I pulled the trigger and the hammer fell, the boy’s whole body responded, reacting to the loud metallic click.

  “Let me try.”

  I handed over the gun, cautioning: “Don’t point it at anyone. Don’t ever do that. You always treat a gun as if it’s loaded.”

  Nodding, he used both thumbs to draw back the hammer, used both hands to aim the gun at another cartoon figure. Concentrating fiercely on steadying the gun, his finger tightened on the trigger as his tongue came through his lips, moving to one side. It was the classic picture of total childhood concentration. As the hammer fell, his whole body reacted again, electrically.

  “Wow!” His eyes glowed. “I could’ve blown it up. The whole TV. If it’d been loaded, I could’ve killed it. Can I try again?”

  “One more time.” I smiled, cautioning him again not to point the gun at anyone. Rapturously, he dry-fired the weapon again, then carefully gave it back to me.

  “You handle it like a pro,” I said. “Is this the first time you’ve ever held a revolver?” As I asked the question, I reloaded the gun and slipped it into its holster.

  Once more he looked quickly away. “Can I see the handcuffs now?”

  I’d already decided how I’d answer the inevitable question, turning his intense interest to my advantage. “I’ll tell you what, John—why don’t we do that when I come back again? Maybe tomorrow, or the next day. Okay?” I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to get back to police headquarters now.” It was a lie, calculated for its effect.

  “Police headquarters,” he breathed, taking the bait. “No fooling?”

  I got to my feet, smiling down at him. “No fooling. I’ll see you soon. We’ll have longer to talk, the next time. Okay?”