Victims

by Collin Wilcox

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I know you didn’t, Frank.” Playfully, he smiled. “May I call you Frank?”

  Without realizing that I had said it, I answered shortly, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  He shrugged; a languid lifting of his slim, expressive shoulders. “Suit yourself. I was trying to be friendly. Does that bother you?”

  “A little.”

  He snickered. Then, deadpan, elaborately resigned to my boorishness, he began to talk, speaking in an exaggerated monotone, mimicking himself on a tape recorded report.

  “Gordon Kramer called me about six months ago. He told me what he wanted done. At the time, I didn’t connect Marie Kramer with Alexander Guest. I told Kramer I’d get back to him. I contacted my New York office, and told them to check Kramer out.”

  “Did he check out?”

  “Financially, he checked out. And the divorce checked out. That’s about as far as the New York office went, which was a pity.”

  “A pity?”

  He sighed, glancing pointedly to the door and the sounds of his party. “Why don’t you let me run it down for you? Then we can play interrogation.”

  “Go ahead.” I realized that I’d wanted to say, ‘Go ahead, asshole.’ I also realized that the longer I talked to Bennett, the sleazier I felt.

  “While New York was checking Kramer out,” he said, “we started doing some preliminary work here, in San Francisco. Charlie Quade was working for me part time, and—”

  “Charlie—?” I caught myself, ill-temperedly gesturing for him to continue.

  “Charlie did the ground work, out here. Of course, he found out who the subject was—Guest’s grandson. He also discovered that the subject was probably the only person in the world that Guest cared about. So, obviously, I sent back Kramer’s retainer. I mean, I’m not about to get downwind of Alexander Guest, now—am I?” His delicate little smile was primly self-satisfied. He sipped more champagne, and went on.

  “The next step was obvious. I’ll deny I ever did it, of course. But the only smart thing to do after I kissed off a fat fee was to turn virtue to my advantage, if possible. So I got an appointment with the great man himself—finally—and I told him the story. And I’m happy to report that virtue was rewarded. Guest called me a couple of days later, and told me he was grateful for the warning, and said that he needed a man for a confidential assignment. I decided to send Charlie around to him. Not that Charlie was any genius. But, obviously, when I pulled him off the Kramer case, I felt I owed him something.”

  “What was the job that Guest wanted done? Body-guarding?”

  “I don’t know,” Bennett answered. “I didn’t want to know, for obvious reasons.”

  “What obvious reasons?”

  He sighed, impatient with my obtuseness. “Guest hinted that the assignment involved Kramer. He said that he wanted to ‘insure John’s future,’ as he put it. And, after all, I’ve got a reputation to protect. Kramer was my original client, wasn’t he? So, if the original client’s target—Guest—wants to come back on the client, then I don’t want to be involved. At least, not officially.” He teased me with a smug little smile. “Did you follow all that?”

  “You did get involved, though. You gave him Quade.”

  “That’s true. But Quade only worked for me case to case. Basically, he was an independent operator. So, in fact, it worked out beautifully. I didn’t want to know what Charlie was doing for Guest. I told Charlie so, specifically. And, of course, that was fine with Charlie. He wanted to keep Guest for himself, naturally. If he could.”

  “Charlie must’ve told you something, though.”

  “All he said,” Bennett answered, “was that he got something pretty juicy, that apparently involved considerable travel expense—which, of course, Charlie padded. So, naturally, he was ecstatic.” With an air of elegant finality, Bennett drained his champagne glass. “And that,” he said, “is pretty much that. The next thing I knew, I heard on the radio this morning that Charlie was dead.”

  “This job for Guest—did it involve more than guarding the boy?”

  “Frank. Baby.” He rose to his feet, standing coquettishly behind his expensive desk, one hand resting lightly on his hip. “If I knew any more, I’d tell you. I really would. But I don’t know any more. I’ve told you why I don’t know any more. And, if you’re as smart as some say you are, you’ll realize that I’m telling the truth. The whole truth.”

  “Yes,” I answered, getting to my feet and moving to the door. “Yes, I suppose you are.” I thrust my notebook deep into my jacket pocket, took a deep breath, and grudgingly thanked him for his cooperation.

  EIGHT

  AFTER A GOOD NIGHT’S sleep, I called Friedman at ten o’clock Sunday morning.

  “I had to restrain myself from calling you last night,” he announced. “Late last night. Have you seen the Sunday papers?”

  “No. I just got up.”

  “I’d give long odds,” Friedman said, “that Guest told his public relations flacks to pull out all the stops on this one. I know for a fact that, yesterday afternoon, he called in four reporters, and gave them his version of what happened. And, naturally, the reporters took the bait. They’ve practically got Kramer with a noose around his neck, on the front page. The only thing that hasn’t happened—yet—is a story on network news. The D.A., as you can imagine, is totally pissed. So, naturally, the D.A. called Chief Dwyer—who called me last night about eleven o’clock. And Dwyer, also, is pissed. Very, very pissed.”

  “Why? He loves publicity.”

  “He’s probably pissed because Guest got top billing. But the real problem, obviously, is that all this publicity could hurt the D.A.’s case against Kramer. Which is what the D.A. told Dwyer, no doubt about it.”

  “Guest’s a lawyer,” I said. “He should know better. Especially since he obviously wants to see Kramer convicted.”

  “Guest’s a publicity hound, just like most high rollers. It goes with the territory.”

  “Are the lab reports in on the gun yet?”

  “Yes. But I don’t have time to tell you about them now. We’re due at the D.A.’s office in forty-five minutes. I’ll tell you about the reports after the meeting.”

  “Forty-five minutes? I haven’t even eaten. Or shaved. I’m still in my pajamas, for God’s sake. And it’ll take a half hour, at least, to drive to the D.A.’s office. Even on Sunday.”

  I heard him sigh. “All I can tell you is, the D.A. called Dwyer, and Dwyer called—”

  “I know. Dwyer called you. Christ.”

  “Does that mean I’ll see you in forty-five minutes?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  James Stringfellow was about forty-five, about six feet tall. He was gaunt and stoop-shouldered, badly balding. He wore pin-striped suits and old-fashioned rimless glasses. His neck was long and skinny, with a prominent Adam’s apple. Because his nose was so long and thin and his dark eyes with their generous bags beneath were so mournful, Stringfellow always reminded me of a walking raven. He had no hobbies, no wife, no sense of humor. But he was the first assistant district attorney, supervising almost a hundred lesser assistants. When the D.A. wanted a job done right, he gave the case to Stringfellow.

  Even though it was Sunday, and the D.A.’s office was virtually deserted, Stringfellow was dressed as always, in his pin-striped suit, white shirt, and out-of-style narrow tie. He greeted us politely, in his dry, precise voice, then gestured us to comfortable leather armchairs. He asked us politely whether we’d like coffee. When we declined, he pulled a legal pad across the desk, clicked his gold ball-point pen and looked at us expectantly.

  Occasionally referring to his notebook, Friedman talked for almost a half hour. During his summary, I learned that, yes, the revolver found in the shrubbery beside Guest’s driveway was the murder weapon. I also learned that the gun was apparently wiped clean of fingerprints. However, partial prints had been found on the cartridges in the cylinder. Whet
her there were sufficient “points” to certify the prints as evidence was doubtful, but they’d been forwarded to both Sacramento and Washington. Sacramento had just reported that the gun wasn’t registered in California, and hadn’t been reported stolen in California. They’d just sent the information on the gun to the FBI, requesting a nationwide ownership and theft check. With luck—a lot of luck—we’d know the results of the check by tomorrow afternoon. First-round computer scans of unclassified latent fingerprints found at the murder scene had revealed nothing. The next phase of the fingerprint comparison process, visual comparison, would take days, weeks, maybe months.

  When Friedman had finished talking, Stringfellow lifted his head, primly studying his notes through his bifocals. As he read, he thoughtfully pinched an earlobe. After more than a minute, he nodded, as if to indicate that, for him, the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. From my previous dealings with Stringfellow, I knew what to expect next: a no-nonsense, rapid-fire string of probing questions. He started with me. Did I have any additions to Friedman’s report? Any differences? What was my impression of each of the subjects I’d interrogated? Were they smart? Observant? Truthful? Biased?

  As I talked, Stringfellow worked fussily at his notes, allowing one page of his lined yellow pad for each of the subjects I’d interrogated. When I finished my summary, he took another minute or two to study the sheaf of yellow pages. Then he looked up, cleared his throat, adjusted his old-fashioned glasses on his long, pinched nose, tugged down his vest and spoke in his dry, schoolmaster’s voice.

  “This seems pretty straightforward. We’ve got Kramer on the scene, by his own admission, corroborated by Alexander Guest. Physical evidence—fingerprints and fibers—will probably confirm his presence. So we’ve got opportunity and we’ve got probable motive. The only reliable witness—Guest—is rock solid. If we get any hard evidence linking Kramer to the murder weapon, I’d say we’ve got a case we can take to the grand jury, no question about it. The unknown quantity, of course, is the boy’s testimony. And, actually, that could be critical, assuming that the judge stipulates that he’s competent and allows him to testify in open court. But, whether or not the boy makes it to open court, his testimony is obviously going to influence everyone: our side, the defense, the judge. At the very least, his testimony could affect the judge’s charge to the jury. So it’s critical, obviously, that we know what that testimony is going to be. Do you understand?” He looked at both of us in turn, waited fussily for us to nod, and then continued.

  “To sum up, one way or the other, we’ve got to find out what John Kramer will probably tell the judge. And we’ve also got to find out how solid his testimony will be, assuming he’s put on the stand. So I’d say that your first priority should be to talk to the boy.” He looked at me. “What d’you think your chances are of interrogating him without parental objection?”

  “I might have a shot at it,” I said. “I think he trusts me.”

  “Is the boy with his mother now?” Stringfellow asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good—” He nodded. “You want to make absolutely sure she’s present during the interrogation. Only her. Don’t let Guest get involved, for God’s sake. There’s no reason for that—no legal reason—whatever. Guest isn’t the child’s legal guardian. Which is to say that he has no control over the child’s life. None whatever.”

  “That’s not the way he acts,” I answered ruefully.

  “I understand that. I’m certain that it must be difficult, dealing with him. But I’m telling you your legal position.”

  “Will it take a court order to interrogate the boy?” Friedman asked.

  “Not to interrogate him, I shouldn’t think, provided his parent is present.” Stringfellow frowned, this time kneading his lower lip between thumb and forefinger as he considered the question. “I suppose,” he said, “that you could conceivably need a court order to enter the premises, if his parent or guardian objects to interrogation. But in a capital case, for a child who’s six years old—” He shook his head. “No, there shouldn’t be a problem, interrogating him. Provided, as I’ve said, that his mother is present during the interrogation.”

  “Good.” Friedman nodded.

  “And, obviously, we don’t want Kramer talking to the boy—Kramer, or his lawyer, if we can help it. At least, not until we’ve talked to the boy first. That’s essential. If we assume that Kramer has programmed the boy to tell a false story, we don’t want that falsity reinforced. Which, conceivably, Kramer’s lawyer could accomplish.”

  “Right.” Friedman nodded again.

  “Good. Well—” Stringfellow shuffled his papers together and pushed himself back from his big walnut desk. “Is there anything we haven’t covered?”

  “Have you talked to Kramer?” Friedman asked.

  Stringfellow nodded. “I talked to him yesterday evening.”

  “And?”

  “Well—” The lawyer once more began pulling at his earlobe. “I found his story remarkably consistent. However, at the moment, he’s the only suspect we’ve got. That’s to say, we’ve got a corpse at the scene of the crime, and we’ve got a boy, and we’ve got Kramer, and we’ve got Alexander Guest. And if we eliminate the boy, and we eliminate Kramer, then that leaves Alexander Guest. And I must say—” He permitted himself a small, prim smile. “I must say that I, for one, wouldn’t like to prosecute Alexander Guest for the murder of his own grandson’s bodyguard. Not on the evidence as it stands now, anyhow.”

  “Are you saying that you want me to interrogate John Kramer before you decide to ask for an indictment?” I asked.

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Stringfellow answered. “As far as I know, tomorrow we’re going before a special session of the grand jury, asking for an indictment. However, as soon as possible, I’d like to find out what John Kramer has to say—how solid he is. That’s what I’m saying. So keep in touch.” He positioned his papers neatly on his desk, smiled perfunctorily, shook hands with both of us, and wished us good day.

  NINE

  FRIEDMAN AND I GOT coffee from a machine and went down the corridor to his office. When he unlocked the door we saw a sheet of paper on the floor. Together, standing, we read the unevenly printed message:

  CALL CHIEF DWYER AT HOME

  Canelli’s initials were scrawled in the lower left hand corner, along with the day and time: Sunday, 10:20 A.M.

  Friedman stepped over the paper and sighed as he sank down in his chair, unlocking his desk drawer. I knew he was looking for a cigar, his first of the day. When he began muttering under his breath, I smiled. There were no cigars in his desk. Since it was Sunday, and he wasn’t wearing a vest, he didn’t have any cigars with him. And the cigar store in the lobby was closed. Friedman was stuck.

  “What’ll you bet,” Friedman said, pointing to the message, “that you’ve got one, too.”

  “I don’t plan to go to my office. That way, I’ll never know.”

  “There’s no point in both of us taking Dwyer’s lip. Is that it?”

  I nodded. “That’s it.”

  “He could’ve called you at home. There could be a message beside the telephone.”

  “I plan to be in the field.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m going to try and interrogate John Kramer. Obviously.”

  “Before you do that,” Friedman said, “why don’t you talk to Katherine Barnes, see what she has to say?”

  “Who’s Katherine Barnes?”

  “Katherine Barnes is Charlie Quade’s latest girlfriend. See, I’ve been researching the last few years of Charlie’s life.”

  “What’d you find out?”

  Friedman spent the next several minutes covering Charlie Quade’s life from the time he lost his shield to the time of his death. It was a short story, and a sordid one. When he finished, Friedman tossed a slip of paper across the desk. “That’s her address. Charlie’s address, actually.”

  Charlie Quade’s ap
artment house was about what I would have expected: a cheaply built building with a gaudy facade, located in a so-so part of town, the kind of neighborhood where a showy car and a free-spending style attracts a lot of favorable attention. The interior hallways were carpeted in emerald-green acrylic; the plaster of the hallway walls sparkled with glitter. It was a three-story building. At the head of each flight of stairs, plastic flowers attached to real manzanita branches were artfully arranged against mirrored wall tiles. But the manzanita was lacquered to a plasticlike gloss. And the “rocks” that completed the neo-rustic display were actually styrofoam.

  As I pushed the bell button of Apartment 7, I noticed that there was no name card inserted in the brass slot above the button. Either Charlie had craved anonymity, or Katherine Barnes had removed the card as soon as she learned Charlie was dead.

  Out of long habit, after ringing the bell, I stepped back, unbuttoned my corduroy jacket and raised my hand to waist level, close to the butt of my service revolver. I was about to press the button a second time when I heard footsteps on the other side of the door. The tiny glass prism set into the door’s peephole flickered.

  “Yes?” It was a woman’s voice. “Who’s there?”

  I identified myself, showed her my I.D. and told her why I’d come. I heard a pained sigh, then heard the rattle of a night chain, followed by the sound of a deadbolt lock turning, and another lock clicking.

  Like Charlie’s apartment house, Charlie’s girlfriend was about what I’d expected: lots of show, but not much class. She was tall and long-legged. Her hair had been dyed to a dark, lusterless brown. The hair was elaborately piled on top of her head, secured by several rhinestone combs and clips. Her eyebrows were heavily drawn in black, her lips were heavily drawn in red. Her eyes were shadowed with iridescent green. Her long lashes were false. The skin of her face was blotched and pitted, covered over with layers of cheap makeup. Her red sweater and black toreador pants were tight-fitting, revealing in precise detail her breasts, her nipples, her buttocks, and the cleft of her pubis. But the curves were beginning to slip, and the flesh was beginning to sag. Her mouth was drawn into an expression of permanent displeasure, as if she were tasting something sour. Her eyes were narrowed, permanently suspicious. Like her mouth and eyes, her voice was hard and unfriendly.