by Parnell Hall
"No. That's the club I hold over your head to get you to tell what you know. If that doesn't scare you, we throw in the fact your cop buddy's in a lot of trouble for trying to cover for you."
It occurred to me long about then that in attempting to function as my own attorney I'd been trying to act like a lawyer and talk like a lawyer instead of thinking like a lawyer. I'd sort of lost sight of the main object. I asked myself, what would Richard do?
"Am I under arrest?"
"You're just answering questions"
"I'm not under arrest?"
"No.
"Good. Then I'm leaving."
I got up and walked out.
No one stopped me.
is
I STAKED OUT HARMON HIGH. First I made damn sure I wasn't being followed. In solving the murder of Victor Marsden, I had one small advantage on the cops. I knew who did it.
It was no use telling Crowley, because he wouldn't believe me. Kessler had no record. Convincing the cops that a professor, whose biggest concern should be grading papers, had just carried out a mob hit was going to be a tough sell.
I needed proof. I didn't know how I was going get it. That wasn't my concern. My main concern was looking the son of a bitch in the eyes and telling him off.
What a prick. The guy didn't need me. I served no useful purpose. Clearly, he intended to go through with the hit all the time. He wasn't even straight with me about not doing it in the apartment. He had lied to me every step of the way, and made sure my employment did no good. What had he needed me for?
Three forty-five and students began streaming out of the school building. Black, white, Hispanic, Asian. Laughing and smoking, and shouting obscenities and bopping to iPods and giving the general impression that any learning that had just transpired was entirely coincidental and not to be inferred.
Scattered among the youth of our nation were a few growntips, who tended to fall into two categories: the younger, earnest, and idealistic; the older, jaded, and cynical.
Martin Kessler was not among them. By four o'clock it was clear he had not emerged. I wondered if he had been to school at all.
A couple of black students were having an argument outside the gate. Girlfriend and boyfriend, most likely, from the names they were calling each other, such as bitch and nwtlierf+ckcr. The girl had her top knotted under her breasts. The boy had the waist of his pants hanging under his ass.
I went over, said, "Excuse nie."
The boy said, "Whoa!" and took a big step back. He was lucky he didn't trip on his jeans.
I forgot what I looked like. The kid was probably holding drugs and thought I was a plainclothes cop. I said, "You know Mr. Kessler, the English teacher?"
His eyes were wide. Was this a trick? That was his first assumption. It took a second to realize that would be a mighty strange trick.
"Yeah," he said. "So what?"
"You know him?"
That put him on the defensive again. "I'm in his class. So?"
"Was he in school today? I didn't see him leave."
"'Scuse me?"
"I didn't see him come out just now. Was he here?"
The girl was either smarter or couldn't resist dumping on hint. "Duane, you stupid or what? Man wanna know if the teacher here. He here, but he left."
"When?"
"Enda class. Bell's three forty-five."
"You're saying he taught his afternoon class?"
The girl looked at me the way she'd looked at Duane. "Shee-it."
The two of them were laughing so hard I might as well not have been around. "Where is he?" I interrupted.
"He gone."
"Is there another door?"
She shrugged. "Onliest one I know."
"Any chance he stayed around after school, talked to someone?"
"Man, he gone."
I thought that over, and I didn't like it. If Kessler got out of school without me seeing him, that meant he didn't want me to see him. Which was understandable under the circumstances. He knew I could stake out his classroom. So avoiding me had to be a short-term goal. Taking pains not to see me now.
While I was thinking that, the teacher most likely to induce passion in students, though not necessarily for her subject, came out. She was dressed conservatively enough, in a loose cotton shirt and mid-calf-length skirt. Her hair was back in a ponytail. She wore large-framed glasses.
Does that describe a raving beauty? No. Quite the opposite. It describes a quite ordinary woman.
Wrong again.
This was a woman to die for. Or to kill for. Even the most unobservant couldn't help but notice that those casual clothes concealed young, perky breasts, with nipples like ...
But I digress.
Anyway, the girl I'd been talking to saw her and called, "Hey, ma'am. He lookin' for Mr. Kessler."
She flashed a smile. "Just missed him," she said, and kept on going.
It occurred to me, the whole thing could not have been better staged to create the illusion Martin Kessler had been there. What a ridiculous thought. And shame on me for having thought it. These people were not conspirators, sent to play a part. I'd approached thenm. The woman wasn't in on it. She'd only said something because the girl said something. A conspiracy theory made absolutely no sense. The only reason I'd come to it was I'd been watching the door, and I was sure Martin Kessler hadn't come out.
Unless ...
And this is where we start getting into paranoia run wild. I recognized it as such. I knew that's what it was. But somehow that didn't help.
It was a sound paranoid thought.
I knew Martin Kessler killed Victor Marsden. I was the only one who knew Martin Kessler killed Victor Marsden. I could finger Martin Kessler. I could connect him to the crime. I was a liability, a threat, a serious danger to Martin Kessler, notorious hitman.
I was expendable.
I had to go.
Kessler had snuck out of class today because he was a pro who knew all the tricks of the trade. He spotted me waiting for him, and he avoided me. He avoided me just the way he had avoided the doorman when he had gone in to kill Victor Marsden. He avoided me so he could stalk me. He was probably watching me right now.
My stomach felt hollow. My back tingled like it was in the crosshairs of a high-powered rifle. Or a laser beam, that's what they used now, a tiny pinpoint of light between my shoulder blades, guiding the bullet into my heart. I wouldn't even know it happened. One moment I'd be standing here, the next moment I wouldn't.
Poor Alice.
Would I feel it?
Would I hear it?
I heard it, and I jumped a mile.
is
I AVOID THE MORGUE AS much as possible. Though, in this instance, I wasn't that unhappy to be here. Mostly because I'd walked in of my own accord instead of being carried in feetfirst, which was my expectation when I hear that sound. But, no, it wasn't the whine of a bullet from an assassin's gun; it was merely Wendy/Janet beeping me to tell me to call Detective Crowley. I did, and it turned out he was sending a police cruiser to pick me up. The medical examiner had finished the autopsy, and they wanted me to ID the body. I'm not squeamish, but Il)ing dead mob hitmen is not my idea of a good time.
"I don't even know the man," I protested.
"You saw him in his apartment building."
"So?'
"In the company of the man who allegedly killed him. We need your ID to put the two together"
"Can't the doorman do that?"
"The doorman doesn't know the man who killed him."
That didn't make sense to me, but then I didn't want it to make sense to me. I wanted to go home, get in bed, pull the blanket up over my head, and pretend this wasn't happening. Maybe that's not heroic, but, excuse me, what would you do, arm yourself and go looking for a hitman from the mob? One with the stealth to get in and out of the apartment building without being spotted. Not to mention a public school. I gotta tell you, I wouldn't like my chances. I know some asshole's alwa
ys doing it in the movies, but that's a movie. And the asshole presumably has talent. He may be a civilian, but he's brawny, or smart, or some combination of the two, and he has nerves of steel, and never considers the fact he might get killed in his enterprise, because, of course, he doesn't. Sorry, bub, that's not the way it works.
Anyway, it wasn't just the smell of formaldehyde and the harsh flourescent lighting and the cold white marble that was giving me chills.
Crowley noticed. "Never been in a morgue before?"
I ignored the comment. "Where's the damn corpse?"
Crowley jerked his thumb at the wall of pullout drawers they keep the bodies in. "One of these"
"Which one?"
He shrugged. "Shouldn't be a problem. They file 'em alphabetically."
I almost said, "They do?" Thank god, I stopped myself. The image of morticians pulling out drawers, juggling corpses, and making room for new ones was only slightly ludicrous.
"How do we find him?" I asked.
"We wait for the ME. Gives me a chance to ask you a couple of questions that are totally off the record. No one here but you and me."
"You're not wearing a wire?"
"You watch a lot of TV?"
"Probably more than I should."
"Then let me give you a hint. If my best shot at solving this was talking to you wearing a wire I'd be a pretty bad cop."
"If you're such a good cop, who did it?"
"I have no idea."
"There you are"
He looked at me narrowly. "You're not still pushing the schoolteacher?"
"I'm not pushing anything. I'm just saying if any part of what MacAullif told you was true, it would be in my better interests to get the guy put away before he got the idea I could ID him."
"Are you scared?"
"Of a cold-blooded killer so proficient you haven't got a clue? Why should I be scared?"
"See, that's the other impression you get from the books you read. The idea that the cops are clueless. We're really not so bad."
"Yeah," I said. "Since this thing happened, the only one you managed to pick up is me."
"Funny about that."
A young man in a white coat came into the room. I figured he was a lab assistant, but he turned out to be an ME. I'm really having this age thing lately.
"Who you after?" he asked Crowley. Funny how he pegged him for the detective. We were both in plain clothes.
"Victor Marsden," he said.
"Oh, yeah. Gunshot to the head. Now, where'd we put him?"
The ME looked the drawers over, selected one. "Ah, here we go." He grabbed a handle, pulled it out.
The body slid out just like they do in the movies. Except the sheet was bloody. I hadn't expected that. Blood had oozed from the wound in the forehead where they'd dug out the bullet. Of course, they needed it for evidence to match it up with the gun. Assuming they ever found it.
It was impossible to see the entry wound. It had been sliced open, then sewn up with black thread. I suppose they photographed it a zillion times before cutting in.
I gasped, recoiled.
Crowley smiled at my discomfiture. "Is that the man you saw last night talking with the man you knew as a hitman?"
No, it wasn't.
The man on the slab was the man who'd employed me, the hitman himself, the one who'd given the name of Martin Kessler, a schoolteacher from Harmon High.
20
I 1)11) WHAT THE MORON does in the detective books I read. I held out on the cops. Instead of telling them everything-the sane, normal, sensible course of action-I opted for column B: keep your mouth shut and solve the thing on your own.
Let's not go overboard. I don't think solve-the-thing-on-your-own came into it. It was just that too many realities had suddenly changed for me to make a coherent explanation. If I started talking, I'd still be there. Safely in police custody, but in police custody nonetheless.
Instead, I opted for the short answer. The one that required fewer explanations.
"Yes," I said.
If that gave the police the wrong impression, I'm sorry. But I'm not sure exactly what the right impression was just then.
Richard didn't want to hear it. Which seethed unfair, in light of what happened in the morgue. But he stuck to his guns. "You're not under arrest."
"No, but I lied to the police."
"No, you didn't," Richard said.
"Yes, I did."
"No, you didn't. What a moron.You didn't lie.You made statements which may turn out to be contrary to known facts."
"What's the difference?"
"Three to five"
"Richard."
"Minimum security. Probably get to play golf."
"Richard, I'm in trouble."
"No shit. I'm trying to keep you from getting me in trouble."
"Don't you want to get me out?"
"Let's see. I have a lucrative law practice that keeps me in the upper tax brackets. Now, would I want to jeopardize that for a chance of being disbarred and going to jail?"
"Since when were you afraid of the police?"
"I'm not afraid of the police."
A light went on. "You're afraid of the hitman."
"I thought you said the hitman's dead."
"He is."
"Then I'm not afraid of him."
"But you're avoiding the case."
"Yes, I am. Tell you why.You got involved with people who kill people.You weren't smart enough to nip it in the bud, and now it's blown all out of proportion"
"That's how you describe the murder of my client?"
"He's not your client. He's a dead man.You don't work for him anymore.
"But-"
"You should consider the case closed. Whatever money you've been paid, apply it to your fee and write the rest off, because you're not going to see any more."
"What about the murder?"
"What about it? Someone killed your client. That's bad, but the way I understand it, it's better than the other way around.You were afraid your client was going to come after you. He isn't. This other guy doesn't know you, so you're basically out of the picture. You should throw a party."
"To celebrate the fact my client is dead?"
"He wasn't a nice person."
"He seemed like a nice person. He said he was a schoolteacher."
"So he lied to you. A criminal lied. What a shock! No wonder it caught you flat-footed"
"So what do I do about the police?"
"There's nothing you can do.You lied to them. All you can do now is compound your lie, or get caught in it."
"Richard-"
"Neither of which is a very attractive alternative. So I would advise you to stay away from the police. If I were advising you. Which I'm not. But, if I were, that's the move I would advise you to make. There would be no question in my mind. The only question is, will the police stay away from you?"
"Yeah, but ... ?"
"Yeah, but what?"
"Everything's upside down. A hitman wants me to stop him from killing somebody. I don't, but somebody else does. By killing him. Isn't that a rather unlikely outcome? Doesn't it leave a lot of questions unanswered?"
"Yeah, but they're not your questions. They're a matter for the police."
"I know But ..."
"But what?"
"The guy hired me to stop him from killing someone."
"So?"
"Who was I supposed to stop him from killing?"
21
I DIDN'T FIND OUT FOR a while because I was off the case. As Richard pointed out, the death of my client more or less ended things. Leaving me no work except his.
I broached the Yolanda Smith case to no avail. Richard had already dropped it. Wondered why I wouldn't let it go.
I wasn't sure myself. I'm not a lawyer. I've never worked for any other lawyer. I wouldn't know who to refer it to. But it struck me as a huge injustice, sitting there like a baseball on a batting tee, waiting for someone to hit a home run.
; "It's not just medical malpractice, it's criminal conspiracy. The porn director is in league with the doctor."
"Oh, that'll be fun to prove. Who do I ask, the obstetrician or the auteur?
"You ask 'em both."
"Huh?"
"If they know each other. They deny it, and you prove it, it's a slam dunk after that."
"Oh, is that how it's done? Let me see if I understand this. I subpoena into court two hostile witnesses. Get 'em to lie on the stand. Then I subpoena into court some other hostile witnesses to testify that the first hostile witnesses committed perjury."
"That's unfair."
"What?"
"Calling them hostile witnesses."
"Who?"
"The second ones. The ones testifying the first ones are committing perjury."
"Give me a break. If they know the other two well enough to know that they are committing perjury, they are friends of theirs. Which makes them hostile witnesses. However, you raise a good point. I'll have to prove they're hostile witnesses, which I won't be able to do. Not as long as they testify civilly and matter-of-factly, which shouldn't be too hard, as they have no reason to do otherwise."
"You could justify taking this case if you wanted"
"I could justify anything if I wanted. The point is, I don't want. I should think that's abundantly clear."
"The case you do want. The quadriplegic. Why do you want that?"
"Are you kidding? It's a quadriplegic. It's an injury made in heaven. It's a lawyer's wet dream."
"The woman's baby died."
Richard shook his head. "Sorry. Quadriplegic trumps dead baby every time. The dead baby was never a human being with thoughts, personality, and emotions. He was a nice idea that didn't happen. This is a human being who will be sitting there in court, unable to lift a finger in his own defense. And don't think I won't use that phrase a few times."
"You're not the defense, you're the plaintiff."
"It won't matter. The jurors, if any, will be on his side."
"Why do you say `if any'?"
"They'll be looking to settle the moment we get to court."
"Then you don't need to go over my testimony."
"Nice try. The point is, this is a case I can win. A simple, straightforward case of a man on whom an egregious injury has been afflicted"