Victims

by Collin Wilcox

  Turning to me, Guest said, “It’s ten o’clock in the morning, Lieutenant. It wasn’t until an hour ago that your Lieutenant Friedman called to tell me Durkin was in custody. At the same time, I also learned that Durkin actually threatened to kill my grandson—actually menaced him, physically. All this I learned hours after the fact, by routine phone call. And, furthermore—” Obviously trying to control his mounting indignation, Guest broke off, drawing a long, deep breath. “Furthermore, I’m also told that Kramer could be released from custody—after he broke into my home, and took my grandchild, in defiance of a court ruling.”

  “He’s being held on suspicion of murder, Mr. Guest. We’ve got to—”

  “He’s a criminal. A felon, actually. If I may take the liberty of instructing you on the law,” he said contemptuously, “any person who enters another’s premises for the purpose of doing that person harm can, literally, be shot to death by that householder, once the intruder crosses the threshold. Are you aware of that fact, Lieutenant?”

  “Yessir, I am.”

  “And are you also aware that …”

  His withering lecture continued, but his words began to run together as my thoughts strayed. I was remembering Durkin’s statement that Alexander Guest had encouraged him to treat Kramer like a common housebreaker, if he ever tried to enter the Kramer premises. In effect, Guest had offered a bounty on Kramer, put a price on his head.

  Had he made the same offer to Charlie Quade?

  Could Guest have discovered Kramer was in San Francisco, and that he intended to steal his own child? Could Guest have had Kramer watched, spied on, in New York? It was possible. Probable, even. Durkin had seen videotapes of Kramer, supplied by Guest. Meaning that, yes, Guest probably had Kramer under close surveillance in New York. And if electronic surveillance had been part of the package, Guest could easily have learned of Kramer’s plans. He could have known Kramer’s schedule, known the date of Kramer’s arrival in San Francisco. He could have had Kramer followed from the airport to his hotel …

  … and followed from his hotel wherever he went, from Wednesday to Friday night.

  And, if all that were possible, then it was also possible that Guest had laid a trap for Kramer on Friday night. The servants had been given the weekend off—as usual. The “household key” had been left in its accustomed place—as usual. The burglar alarm might even have been turned off; that essential fact had never been established. Everything had been made easier for Kramer, not more difficult.

  Everything except Charlie Quade, on guard with his Colt .45 automatic.

  “… exactly, are you here now?” Guest was demanding. Divining that my attention had wandered, he had raised his voice imperiously, compelling my attention.

  Why was I there? he was asking.

  He’d given me my chance—my last chance, maybe my only chance.

  Should I take it—take the gamble?

  Without Friedman to back me up, without prior consultation, without departmental authorization, should I gamble on an unproven, untested theory, a theory that had come to me only moments before?

  Should I accuse Alexander Guest of planning Kramer’s death?

  Should I—could I—confront one of the world’s most successful trial lawyers with a theory that was still incomplete, a theory that I would have to piece together as I went along—a theory that still lacked one essential element, one final piece of the puzzle?

  “Well?” Guest was saying, “are you going to answer the question, Lieutenant?”

  His arrogance, his obvious contempt—and most of all, the way he pronounced Lieutenant—all of it came instantaneously together, making my decision for me.

  “I’m here,” I began, “because there’re still some unanswered questions in the Quade homicide. I’m here to try and get those questions—those contradictions—cleared up.” I hesitated a moment, then decided to say, “You’re a famous lawyer, Mr. Guest. You can help me.”

  He waved a haughty, condescending hand. “That’s why I’m here, Lieutenant—to get this resolved. Don’t you understand that?”

  Taking one final moment to try and organize my thoughts, I automatically nodded, answering vaguely that, yes, I understood. Then, realizing that I had to either take the gamble on my unfinished theory or else admit defeat, I said, “We’ve got four accounts of what happened Friday night—your account, John’s, Kramer’s and, now, Durkin’s. And these accounts don’t match, not completely. Or, rather, three of them match, but they don’t match the physical evidence.” With my eyes on his face, I let a beat pass before I said, “Only your account matches the physical evidence, Mr. Guest.”

  He, too, let a beat pass. Then, carefully, he asked, “What evidence is that?”

  “The shots,” I answered. “There were four shots fired. But only—” Interrupted by the shock of a sudden incredible thought, the sentence went unfinished. As if the shock had been physical, I felt my body suddenly tighten, reacting.

  Had the sudden thought completed my theory, supplied the puzzle’s missing piece?

  “Well?” he demanded, “what about the shots?”

  “There were four shots,” I answered, “but only you heard them. The other three witnesses, if we assume that they’re telling the truth, were all—”

  “But they obviously weren’t telling the truth,” he said impatiently. “If one of them is the murderer, either Kramer or Durkin, then it goes without saying that one of them is lying.”

  “That’s assuming one of them did it.” As I spoke, I looked at Marie, sitting beside me on the couch. Her eyes were fixed, staring at me. Her body was rigid. Had she guessed what I was thinking? Did she know what I was about to say?

  I realized Guest was looking at both of us in turn. As I shifted my gaze to him, I saw his eyes widening incredulously.

  “You don’t think—” He broke off, his mouth momentarily working impotently. “You aren’t here, questioning Marie, because you think—” Now his ice-gray eyes narrowed. At first incredulous, Alexander Guest’s famous face was twisting into an unrecognizable mask, distorted by sudden fury.

  “You think she killed Quade.” Guest’s voice was clogged deep in his throat. “That’s what you think, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here. Because you think Marie did it.”

  Still struggling to master the shock of the incredible conviction that had seared my thoughts only moments before, I said, “No, Mr. Guest, I don’t think Marie did it. I think—” I drew a long, deep breath. “I think you did it.”

  “You think—” Sudden derision tugged at the mask of fury that still contorted the famous face. The voice was still thickened by suppressed anger as he said, “You’re crazy, Hastings. You must be crazy. It’s the only explanation.”

  Beside me, Marie Kramer stirred, turning to face me. “How?” she whispered. “Why, for God’s sake?”

  Still with my eyes on Guest, I said, “All four stories agree to the point where you heard the shots. At that point, you said you heard four shots. One shot, followed by three more. Is that correct, Mr. Guest?”

  He made no reply, gave no indication that he’d heard. His face was utterly impassive.

  “Or was it three shots, that you heard—then? Three shots, not four?”

  Still he sat silently, staring at me with his cold, watchful eyes.

  “Let’s say it was three shots that you heard. Then let’s say that, after you heard the shots, you went to the window and saw Kramer and John in the driveway. You assumed that Kramer had done the shooting, and was escaping. You left the window, and got your revolver. While you were doing that, you naturally couldn’t see Durkin, who was leaving the premises. You went downstairs and found Quade in the hallway outside John’s room. He’d been shot. Once. In the upper chest. By Durkin. But you hadn’t seen Durkin, so you thought Kramer had done it. And you saw your chance. One more shot, and Kramer could be out of your life. He could be convicted of murder.

  “And that’s what you did, Mr. Guest. You shot Quade t
hrough the neck, just below the ear. You used the revolver lying close to the body—Kramer’s revolver, as it turned out, registered to him. You didn’t know that at the time, though. But you did know, probably, that Quade carried a .45 automatic, the same gun you carried in the Marine Corps. So you were sure—almost sure—that Kramer had used the revolver.

  “You wiped your prints off the revolver, and went outside and ditched the gun in the shrubbery close to your house, where you knew it would be found—hopefully by the police, not by a pedestrian. And then—” I spread my hands. “Then you went inside, and called the police. When I questioned you initially, you said you heard four shots. You assumed, probably, that Kramer had stayed around long enough to have heard the fourth shot, and you wanted your story to square with his. Either that, or you just stuck to the physical evidence, as any good lawyer would.

  “Your biggest potential problem, of course, was John, and how much credence the court would give to his story, since it would corroborate Kramer’s. But you knew you had a good chance of blocking John’s testimony.” I paused, then added, “And you knew, if you could do that, you could probably get Kramer convicted of murder. Especially with your connections.”

  As I talked, I kept my eyes on Guest’s face, searching for some clue to the effect of my words. His face still remained impassive, revealing nothing. His eyes didn’t falter, didn’t fall away. The silence lengthened, as taut and ominous as the empty moments following a scream of agony. Finally he spoke. His voice was cold as tempered steel.

  “Did that scenario occur to you now—just now, as we were talking?” It was a calm, concise question, a professional’s question, asked by a trial lawyer who’d made his fortune thinking moment to moment on his feet, pleading before a jury.

  “Most of it just occurred to me now,” I admitted. “Or, at least, the part that concerns you.”

  Judiciously, he nodded, a connoisseur’s measured approval. “It’s a good scenario. It accounts for everything, ties everything together. You’re to be congratulated, Lieutenant.” He inclined his handsome head, nodding urbane approval. “An impressive performance.” He rose to his feet. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to be going. I’ve got a meeting at eleven, and I want to be sure that John’s—”

  “Is that all you’re going to say?” It was Marie Kramer’s voice, beside me. She was on her feet, confronting her father. “Aren’t you going to deny it?”

  He turned his calm, clear gaze on her. “Denials don’t mean anything. It’s what he can prove—and can’t prove. And there’s no proof—no proof of what he says. Absolutely none. He doesn’t have a witness, and there’s no physical evidence that corroborates the story. So it’s just that, you see—a story. A theory that fits the facts.” He smiled at her: a small, supercilious smile, completely controlled, utterly self-satisfied. “But without a witness, or physical evidence—without a confession, the story is worthless. Absolutely worthless. I guarantee it.”

  As Marie Kramer stared hard into her father’s face, I saw her eyes come alive, burning with sudden hatred. Except for brief moments of self-defeating anger, it was the first time I’d seen anything but confusion in her eyes, the first time I’d seen her body draw indignantly taut. Fists clenched tightly at her sides, she advanced on her father.

  “You did it,” she whispered. “I know you did it. I can see it. I can feel it.”

  The supercilious smile remained in place. Only the eyes changed, frozen to contemptuous ice.

  “You never could get things straight, Marie. Even as a small girl, you never got things quite right. It’s a pity, too. Because you’re really quite bright. You’ve always been bright.” He paused a moment, then quietly added, “Too bright, obviously, for your own good—too self-destructive.” He nodded to me, opened the door, and quietly left the room.

  Slowly, visibly, the passion drained from Marie Kramer’s face. The strength left her body as she sank helplessly down on the couch, head bowed. As the sobbing began, I heard her say, “Everything I ever wanted he always took from me. First he’d give me things. Lots of things—expensive things. But then, whenever I displeased him, he’d take them away. All of them. So I always had new things, you see. Never old things. Just new things—a long succession of new things, that never seemed to really belong to me. Toys, cars—boys, men. He took them all away—and then replaced them. Or else he made me replace them, if they couldn’t be bought.”

  TWENTY

  DURING THE ENTIRE TIME I’d been talking, James Stringfellow hadn’t once interrupted, hadn’t taken his eyes from mine. His long, pale, sorrowful-looking schoolmaster’s face hadn’t once revealed a single flicker of reaction to anything I’d said. When I finished talking, he sat motionless for a moment, still expressionlessly staring at me. Then he sighed once, deeply, and carefully removed his rimless glasses. He held the glasses up to the light, examined them minutely, then deposited them carefully on the desk in front of him, where they reflected the bright afternoon sun. He sighed again, looked at me again. Without his trademark old-fashioned glasses, the assistant D.A.’s face looked vulnerable, unprotected.

  “I’m wondering,” he said finally, “what action you expect us to take on all this.”

  I looked at Friedman, signifying that it was his turn. We’d been in Stringfellow’s office for more than an hour. During most of that time, beginning at the beginning, I’d reviewed the entire Quade murder case. The more I talked, the more depressed I began to feel, describing Alexander Guest and his schemes. As Friedman began to talk, I speculated on the reasons for my sudden feeling of depression. My conclusion: Stringfellow’s frozen reaction to my report must certainly mean that he had no intention of accepting my ideas, no intention of acting on the information I’d brought him.

  “We’re not asking for anything,” Friedman said, speaking to Stringfellow. “We’re just laying it out for you.”

  With an exaggerated air of regretful patience, Stringfellow wearily shook his head. “You may think you’re laying it out for me, Lieutenant. But you’re not. You’re giving me nothing but theories. Granted, they’re interesting-sounding theories. But, still, just theories.”

  “We’re telling you what happened. It’s the only progression that fits the facts. All the facts.”

  “You may be right. It might’ve happened just exactly as Lieutenant Hastings says. But insofar as proof is concerned—facts, physical evidence—you haven’t given me enough to ask for an indictment against a skid row bum, let alone against Alexander Guest, for God’s sake. For instance—” Stringfellow put on his glasses, using both hands to adjust them on his long nose before he fixed his patient, regretful gaze on Friedman. “For instance, do you have a positive paraffin test on Guest?”

  “No. But we’ve got a minute-by-minute time frame,” Friedman said. “A second-by-second time frame, really. And Guest is the only one who fits the frame.”

  “Bruce Durkin fits the frame,” Stringfellow answered quietly. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s our suspect. He says he fired one shot, I say he fired twice. And, what’s more, my boss says the same thing.”

  “Your boss plays poker with Alexander Guest,” Friedman said. “Every other Wednesday night.”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Lieutenant.”

  “Durkin didn’t fire that fourth shot,” I said.

  “That’s your opinion,” Stringfellow answered, speaking in his dry, precise monotone. “It doesn’t happen to be mine. I think he’s guilty. And I think he’ll fall.”

  “He’ll probably fall like a rotten apple,” Friedman said. “But that doesn’t mean he’s guilty.”

  Stringfellow shrugged indifferently, and looked elaborately at his watch. I suspected that, secretly, he felt relieved. If we’d given him a tighter case, supported by physical evidence, his decision not to prosecute Guest would have been made more difficult. Especially if Chief Dwyer decided to back us up—and also decided to leak our version of the case to the press. But two ho
urs ago, when we’d talked to Dwyer, it was obvious that the chief had no interest in taking on Alexander Guest. For all we knew, Friedman had said, Dwyer might play in the same poker game with the D.A. and Guest.

  “What about Kramer?” I asked. “What do we do with him?”

  Stringfellow shrugged again. “He’s clean, as far as I’m concerned. He can walk. Unless Guest decides to press charges for breaking and entering, Kramer can walk.”

  “I imagine,” I said, “that Guest would rather see Kramer out of jail—and out of town, too.” I let a beat pass, then added, “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Guest wants to close up this whole case just as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  “Well, then—” Stringfellow pushed his chair back from his big walnut desk. “We’re all in agreement. Kramer walks—out of town. No problem.”

  “The gospel according to Alexander Guest,” Friedman muttered. His voice was so low that Stringfellow could pretend he hadn’t heard the remark. He could also pretend not to see the contempt in Friedman’s eyes—and in my eyes, too.

  Stringfellow rose to his feet, nodded formally to us and touched a button on his communications console. We were dismissed.

  As I stood up I said, “He’s not guilty, you know. Durkin’s not guilty of murder.”

  Stringfellow’s face was impassive as he said, “You just tell the facts in court, Lieutenant. Let the jury decide who’s guilty. Okay?”

  Turning away without answering, I jerked open the door and left the office.

  TWENTY-ONE

  KRAMER WAS RELEASED FROM jail the following morning. Friedman and I talked about it, and decided we could be asking for trouble if we told Kramer, officially, that we thought Guest had killed Quade in an effort to frame him for murder. But, still, I wanted to talk with Kramer, wanted to hear, unofficially, whatever he had to tell me. I wanted to know, one on one, off the record, whether his suspicions squared with mine. So Friedman and I decided to lie. We told Kramer one condition of his release required that I accompany him to San Francisco International and put him on a plane for New York. Waiting for his flight to leave, I’d have my chance to talk to him.