Yesterday's Body

by Norma Huss

  One of them definitely growled.

  Another muttered, “Be quiet, lady.”

  Yes, I was getting to them. It was my finest moment. However, it didn’t last. My brain finally kicked into reality. They had me. I couldn’t do a thing about it. They took me to the police station. Fortunately, I’d eaten a kiwi, because there was no lunch break at the police station, nor any access to my fruit bars.

  Play the part. Yes, they knew me as a homeless woman, a bag lady. I spoke sternly, then shouted insults, but I ended up exactly where they wanted me—in an eight by twelve room with one door and one window, but no view. They took my bag, as well as my jacket. But they couldn’t take Clyde. He was always there. He walked stiff-legged, his fur on end, defying me for calling him “little.”

  They sat me on a folding chair. The two cops sat across a metal table with a tape recorder on top. They asked questions. Clyde told me not to talk.

  My name? They’d already used it. Why ask? I stared blankly. “I demand a lawyer.”

  My address? “Do you have a telephone book so I can call a lawyer?”

  What was I doing in the Hemingway house? I sighed hugely. “Didn’t you say a lawyer will be provided?”

  Their frustration built up. “There’s no law against giving your name and address.”

  I leaned back in the metal chair, nearly upsetting it. Their accommodations were utilitarian, stark, and gray.

  Finally, someone brought a telephone book and slammed it on the table in front of me. “Okay, who’s your lawyer?” he asked.

  I thumbed through the yellow pages. “Naturally, I’ll have to research them before I choose one.”

  “Naturally,” the first one said, with a touch of sarcasm. He and the second police person mumbled in the corner. One definitely said, “Could take hours,” before the second one left.

  Yes , I was in control. Perhaps they’d give up and release me.

  Didn’t happen. They fingerprinted me and took my picture, twice, since I made a face the first time. They questioned me some more. They left me alone, locked in the tiny room. They didn’t mention murder. They didn’t mention my former husband, killed while joy riding with Francine. They didn’t mention “White Widow,” or even anything about my usual, apartment-dwelling life style. Maybe they didn’t know. Then they brought some child named Miss Wilson into the room.

  “I’m here to protect your interests until you choose your own lawyer,” she said. She was tall and skinny, the awkward type. She didn’t even have the spunk of Mr. Wilson of Dennis the Menace fame, and he’s a wuss.

  While Miss Wilson watched, her fingers twitching over a note pad, they questioned me again. This time they admitted they knew me.

  “Is your name Josephine Durbin?” was the first question.

  What could I say? “If you know my name, why do you ask?”

  Miss Wilson said, “That’s a question you may answer.”

  Some attorney. Whose side was she on?

  “What is your address?”

  “I have no address,” I said with more dignity than truth. But they accepted the answer. They didn’t know about the apartment after all.

  They asked their questions, then they hammered me with facts, trying to prove it was useless to keep quiet. Most of what they said was old news, but I did learn a few things.

  “We know you were in the Hemingway house before the body was discovered. We have a witness who saw you enter. We have your fingerprints inside the house, including on a milk carton in the kitchen waste basket. That milk carton was under items placed there by Francine Hemingway before her death.”

  “You never heard of anyone burying their trash?” I muttered without admitting anything.

  Miss Wilson, earning her keep, said, “You need not respond, Ms. Durbin.”

  The police had no such restrictions, for they kept up the accusations. “We know you touched clothing items of the deceased. The shoes she was buried in had your fingerprints on them.”

  “Really?” I asked. So that’s where those shoes went.

  “Your fingerprints were on the vacuum cleaner, on furniture items, even, and I stress this strongly, in the basement where the body was found.”

  “She was in the basement?”

  “Ms. Durbin, you are not cooperating. Consult your lawyer. She will tell you that sarcasm does not help you.” Dear little Miss Wilson wished she were anywhere but in the police station representing me. “What do you advise your client to do?”

  Miss Wilson said, “I see no problem with Ms. Durbin’s tone of voice.”

  I was beginning to like the child. “Go right ahead. Question me. I find this very interesting.” I was on a roll.

  Another cop took over and changed the subject. “The deceased Lucille Hershey, also known as Lacy, was known to you. She was found wearing your coat. The fibers and hair on the coat will be checked against those found on your back pack.”

  “Did you search my belongings without my permission? I’ll sue.” What was inside? Must be something I didn’t want them to see. “You need a search warrant before you open anything—just like you need one before going into a home.” Possibly.

  My lawyer raised an eyebrow. The policewoman ignored my outburst. “You were seen wearing that coat. That makes two murders you are connected to. You’d better think about giving us some answers.”

  “Do I look capable of killing someone?” I demanded. “I’m an old lady. Old ladies don’t kill people.”

  Even Miss Wilson had that, “Get real,” look on her face. “Ms. Durbin...” she began, but I cut her off.

  “Miss Wilson, can they harass me about murder? They charged me with breaking and entering. What was that, an excuse to get me in their clutches?”

  “Yes, back to breaking and entering,” the policewoman said. “Did you enter the home of Mr. and Mrs. Talbit yesterday afternoon?”

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “How did a catalog addressed to Mr. Talbit get into your possession?”

  I flinched inwardly. They had opened my back pack. Was it time for a creative response, like, “Oh, you mean that thing my sister and I found on the sidewalk.” But how could I say anything until I knew what Sylvie told them?

  Poor little Miss Wilson held her chin. The police continued their questions. “And where were you last night?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  “Were you on the street?”

  “Do you mean to say you think I’m a street person? Watch it. That’s defamation of character.”

  “Which street were you on?”

  “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may tend to incriminate me.” I’d always wanted to say that.

  “Oh,” Miss Watson said. She would never be a good poker player.

  “Were you in the vicinity of Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifth Street?”

  “No.”

  “Nearby?”

  “Maybe if you get me a map, I can tell you.”

  My lawyer said, “I’d like to speak privately with my client.” Reluctantly the police left, no doubt to listen and watch. I searched the walls. Where was the mirror that had to be a one-way window in disguise? Miss Wilson said, “You don’t have to give them any answers. But do you realize they are investigating an assault that occurred last night?”

  “But not another killing.”

  “It may become a murder investigation.”

  Worrying just a bit, I asked, “Who was assaulted?”

  “A homeless person known as Zip.”

  “Lord love a duck!” He’d been at the charity dinner. I was truly speechless. Well, almost. “What happened?”

  “He was found behind a gas station. He’s in a coma.”

  “What’d they do, crack him on the head?”

  “Please don’t make any comments about his injuries. Nothing has been released.”

  In other words, enough of fun and games. Miss Wilson was trying her best to protect me. “Don’t worry,”
I said. “I didn’t kill anyone. Do I tell you where I was or do I tell them?”

  “You tell me all the facts so I, or the lawyer of your choice, may adequately defend you. You needn’t tell them anything.”

  “I don’t need defending. I need to be released. So I’ll tell them. They’ll have to let me go.”

  Miss Wilson gave up. She called the cops back in.

  When they turned on their tape recorder, I said, “Okay, I’ll tell you where I was last night. I was at a dinner given by some do-gooders for Easter even though it was after Easter and...”

  “You were where?”

  “Oh, the police were there too. Guess you didn’t recognize me. But I have plenty of witnesses. My sister Sylvie may have seen me, but the cops took her away, so we never got together. Then, of course, I left with Keisha. She was working at the party. I stayed at her house all night. She’s a dear child, so trusting, and completely unaware of anything I might have done. She even gave me her bed while she slept on the sofa. I made a nice batch of kiwi salsa before I left this afternoon.”

  The police were speechless.

  Miss Wilson said, “I believe you have no further reason to hold my client,” which I knew to be completely untrue, but it activated the cops.

  “How did your fingerprints get in the Hemingway house?” one demanded.

  Why had I ever entered that place? Because it was a research possibility, and I had the key. Isn’t that what keys are for? And how could anyone complain about a clean house? Unless it’s the police looking for fingerprints.

  They waited for my answer.

  “I must admit I entered that house, but I had the keys. Really, I wanted to surprise Mrs. Hemingway with a clean house when she returned from vacation. Did you see any dirt in her house?”

  “Spotless,” one said. “Not an extra fingerprint anywhere.” Obviously he was irritated. “That explains most of the fingerprints, but did you dust her shoes inside her closet?”

  “You mean the blue stilettos? I only put them back where they belonged. They were all over the house.”

  The cop listening in the back came alive. “Where in the house?”

  “One in the living room, one in the second floor bathroom. I moved a few other things too, if you’re interested.”

  They were, so they found out about the chair, a glass dish, and even the mail I’d stacked or discarded.

  “And the second break-in at the Hemingway house. Your only intent was to retrieve laundry. Is that correct?”

  “Please, I didn’t break in. I had the key. But, yes. I only wanted my clothes.” I was home, free and clear.

  But I wasn’t. “And why did you break into the Talbit home?”

  Sylvie had been arrested and questioned. She’d told them something. What could it be? Did she deny everything, or admit to detecting? How should I answer?

  “Ms. Durbin,” the policeman prodded.

  “May I consult my attorney?” I asked.

  Instead, the cop consulted my attorney. Upon their return, he said, “Please tell us, in your own words, why you entered the Talbit home.”

  If Miss Wilson couldn’t squash them, Sylvie must have what? I’d have to agree. Denial, or detecting? I’d deny everything up one side and down the other. But what would dedicated snoop Sylvie say?

  Chapter 25

  The police waited. My lawyer waited. I hesitated, then gave them Sylvie’s answer. “I entered the Talbit home to look for evidence of a crime. I have reason to believe Francine Hemingway and Mr. Talbit were involved together in crime and maybe romantically.”

  Miss Wilson’s eyes widened. Had I chosen correctly?

  “And did you find any evidence?”

  “Other than the catalog, no,” I had to admit.

  I was quite the center of attention for a few minutes. I explained the museum connection, the gold ring, and even Nell Nordstrum’s suspicions. But my moment didn’t last.

  “Very well,” one said. “We will naturally check your alibi for Wednesday night. We will also place you in a line-up for our witness.”

  Wagging my finger at him, I said, “Don’t count on her too much. She trotted around those tables and stared right into my face without blinking an eyelid.”

  Later, my lawyer scolded me. “You just admitted you saw their witness. How would you recognize her if you weren’t there? And where were you when she did see you?”

  “In front of the Hemingway house.” I had to tell all. “As I unlocked the door.”

  Miss Wilson groaned, shook her head, rubbed her ear, then said, “Let me get this straight. You entered a house illegally to clean it? Why?”

  Considering my actual intent, I chose not to answer.

  “Did you plan to stay there? In fact, did you stay at the Hemingway house that night?”

  Was Miss Wilson quicker than she seemed? Or not. If I had been there, I’d have been arrested when they found Francine’s body. I answered with the truth, as far as it went. “No, I didn’t stay there that night. Now may I have my free telephone call?”

  “I must impress on you the necessity of telling me everything, and truthfully. Can you promise me that?”

  “I will tell you the truth,” I said, omitting any reference to “everything.” “Is my sister still in jail?”

  “She has been released on bail. Now, let me check on your phone call.” She left, and I was finally alone to wonder about the latest violent attack.

  Zip had just arrived in Queensboro. He’d been very interested in the police report on Mel’s scanner. Where did he really come from? Had he escaped from his nemesis only to be tracked down and caught? Or was someone out to get homeless people? Zip certainly had no connection with Francine.

  Eventually I made a phone call, but not without restrictions. I wasn’t to call my witnesses, which included Sylvie. When I asked, Miss Wilson assured me the phone was not bugged. Maybe it wasn’t. I called Mel.

  “You were right, they caught me,” I told him. “I’m at the police station.”

  “Be right over. Do you need anything?”

  “You ask that, when you know I have my back pack with me?”

  He laughed uproariously. “Like a lawyer, maybe?”

  “They gave me a sweet young thing. But don’t come. I’ll be out of here before you know it. If not, I’ll ask my…my lawyer to call you.” I’d started to say, “my sister,” but I didn’t. Why? Because she ate men alive?

  No, the real reason I had never told Mel about Sylvie was that I didn’t want the two of them getting together. They’d talk about me, naturally. Mel thought I was homeless. What would happen if he found out I wasn’t? He’d know I let him try to reform me, taken advantage of his hospitality. Lied.

  The cops returned. “We’re ready for the line-up,” one said, as if I had a choice in the matter.

  The last policeman to come into the room was Officer Rivlin. He glanced my way, then said, “Take that red wig off her head. How do you expect anyone to recognize her?”

  “Blew my cover,” I mumbled.

  Nobody laughed. Not even Clyde.

  ~ ~

  First the police had taken my backpack. Then they took my red wig. After what seemed like hours, they took me.

  I joined four other women, gleaned from the supply of female cops and perps. We lined up against a wall marked off in feet and inches. We faced a dark window, our eyes blinking in the glaring light, waiting for someone to point a finger and say, “That’s the one.”

  Instead, a disembodied voice said, “Turn to your left.”

  We all obediently turned.

  “Turn to your right.” We did.

  “Now, starting with number one, say the words, ‘I’m from the agency.’” I mimicked the others until we all sounded like contestants on an old show, “What’s My line.” “My name is Ellie May Dolittle, and I pack parachutes,” each would say, with identical inflections. There were other instructions: Say “Hello,” “Here’s my card,” and “Thank you.” The witness wa
s having trouble, obviously. I’d never said those words. After a pause, we all had to turn away from the window. Then our instructions got silly.

  “Hunch your backs.” I dropped my ears.

  “Squat.” I sat on my heels, then fell over for good measure. So did one other lady.

  “Pretend like you’re running.”

  We’d progressed to Mrs. Talbit who was trying to identify the woman who invaded her kitchen.

  After a few more turns the voice over the loudspeaker said, “Number three, please step forward.”

  I was number three.

  Chapter 26

  I was dead meat. The witness had finally recognized me. I stepped forward. I even waved at the black window. Who had identified me, the neighbor or Mrs. Talbit? But the police had no more questions for me.

  “Ladies, you are excused,” the disembodied voice said.

  We turned and marched to the door. We were excused from the room, but not to freedom, except for one woman, the cop, no doubt. I was escorted back to my holding tank and the other three went back to wherever they’d come from.

  They left me alone in the interrogation room. When they’d arrested me for that phony White Widow deal, I’d been escorted into a lobby-type room with lawyers in every corner. I’d never been in a holding tank, or whatever it’s called. This was a new experience. I began to think of Miss Wilson as my link to the outside world, and I’d only been in jail for a few hours.

  “I should say, ‘in the joint,’” I told Clyde. He sat on the table licking his tail. Really, he wasn’t a table cat, but I didn’t have the heart to scold him.

  Finally, the troops returned: My lawyer, a policewoman, Sylvie, and even Keisha, with Officer Rivlin in tow. Turned out, Keisha was the one who recognized me.

  “I told them you stayed at my house,” she said. “I even told them about your red wig. Did you really make salsa for me? They’re going to take me home to look for it. And I have to get back to work. This is taking like so long, and I still have to get all those restrooms finished. Oh, they asked me if I knew Jo Durbin, but I didn’t know your name. Did you know that? But when I saw you, I said, ‘There’s my fairy godmother.’ Bye.”