Blameless

by B. A. Shapiro

  The picture was facedown at the back of the file. Gingerly, Diana lifted it without turning it over and held it away from her for a moment. She remembered the afternoon clearly: Ethan clowning as they waited for the timer to release; the serious case of the giggles they had all caught; how warm James’s arm had felt across her shoulder.

  She took a deep breath and slowly turned the photo over. Looking down at it—at them as they had once been—she felt such a bittersweet stab of nostalgia that she almost winced. They looked so happy. So carefree. So hopeful. How could only a year have passed?

  Now James was dead. Ethan had disappeared. Sandy was more lost than ever, Bruce was still fainting, and Terri couldn’t bring herself to go anywhere near the subway. And she? Diana narrowed her eyes and studied the laughing woman in the picture. She had aged a decade in the past year.

  Diana forced herself to look at James, at the perfect line of his cheekbone, at the deep happiness in his eyes as he rested his arm on her shoulder and his chin on top of her head. Ethan stood next to James, almost the same height and of comparable build—even their hair was a similar chocolate-brown color—but the look that glinted from Ethan’s eyes could not have been more different from James’s. Ethan’s eyes were hard and cold, almost colorless. A shiver ran down Diana’s back. Ethan’s eyes were empty.

  “Sometimes I think there’s nothing inside Ethan,” James had once confided to her. “Like he’s hollow. Just a shell pretending to be a human being.” He had stared silently at her for a moment, then added, “Sometimes he scares the shit out of me.”

  Diana dropped the picture into her purse, reminded once again of James’s uncanny perceptiveness. One of the most common characteristics of Ethan’s illness—antisocial personality disorder—was the inability to experience emotion, particularly guilt or empathy: Ethan was a truly hollow man.

  Diana took her coat from the rack and buttoned it, but it did little to ward off the cold that emanated from the marrow of her bones. She was afraid. Afraid she wouldn’t find Ethan. And afraid that she would.

  For although it wasn’t unusual for people with Ethan’s disorder to die young, she wasn’t worried that Ethan was dead—he was far too cunning and street-smart for that, and he had left a message on her machine just last week. What Diana feared was that he had caused another to die. And that if backed into a corner, he would have no qualms about doing it again.

  She began to unbutton her coat. She couldn’t put herself in this kind of jeopardy. She couldn’t take this kind of chance with her baby’s life. Then, once again, she heard the grim bleating of the Middlesex horn prodding the sluggish prisoners into their tiny cells.

  And Diana knew that she had no choice.

  Diana was disappointed when she found a parking spot in front of a small Cambodian restaurant just a couple of blocks down from Ken’s Pub. She had been hoping there would be no spaces on Mass Ave. Then she would have to go home. Craig would never let her park on a side street in Central Square when it might be dark by the time she got back. Too risky, he would say. Much too risky. She smiled wryly at herself. In this instance she would have been more than happy to comply with Craig’s cautiousness.

  Slowly she climbed from the jeep, wishing she were back at Molly Arell’s. Talking with James’s congenial aunt now seemed a picnic compared with looking for someone who might be a psychopathic killer. Stop it, Diana reprimanded herself. Aside from Ethan’s lengthy rap sheet—which she knew would include a number of DWI and petty-theft arrests, as well as one for “hurricane drag racing,” a variation on chicken in which both drivers must be loaded to the gills—there was no indication he was a killer. None whatsoever. She swung her purse over her shoulder and marched down the crowded sidewalk toward Ken’s.

  Actually Ethan had always been particularly gracious to her. Congenial, polite, always calling when he disappeared to let her know where he was. Never threatening or mean, never the least bit dangerous. The only thing she could really accuse him of was oversolicitousness.

  She smiled as she opened the heavy oak door of the restaurant, remembering a session when Ethan had reprimanded Sandy for interrupting Diana. “Eddie Haskell clone”, she had scribbled in her notes, a reference to an obsequious character from “Leave It to Beaver.” “Figure out what he wants.” Her smile disappeared when she realized that she never had.

  Diana blinked into the dimness of the pub, the dark wood and glazed windows giving the place a clandestine, cavelike ambience. A small woman approached her from the dusky shadows, and Diana indicated her preference for a table near the bar, as Mitch had suggested. “Talk to the bartender,” he had instructed her. “They’re the ones who know everything that’s going on.” They had discussed the fact that she could’t sit at the bar—a lone pregnant woman on a bar stool sipping club soda was a bit too peculiar—so they decided on a nearby table from which she could easily rise and request some change.

  Diana self-consciously settled herself in the chair, removing her coat and smoothing her jumper in a manner that emphasized her slightly protruding stomach. “Too bad you aren’t further along,” Mitch had said. “Nothing like a pregnant woman to elicit sympathy and loosen a tongue.” Disgusted as she was by the idea, Diana could appreciate the wisdom of his words.

  Although she wasn’t hungry, she ordered a sandwich and picked at it as she watched the bartender enclosed in his large oval-shaped bar, her unease growing along with her scrutiny. He was a gruff and reticent black man named Marcel. He waited on his two customers with unemotional efficiency, running tabs, making drinks, even getting a pack of cigarettes from the machine, without moving a muscle in his expressionless face. One of the waitresses appeared truly afraid of him, and the other, a long-legged student type, joked with him, although Marcel’s response was invariably a scowl.

  Diana knew this man wasn’t going to give her any information. How could he? she wondered, taking a tiny bite of her sandwich: She was never going to get up the guts to talk to him. Then she remembered the tightness around Detective Levine’s jaw when he said he didn’t believe in shitcans. She stood up.

  “Could I please have change for a five?” she asked, holding out a bill toward Marcel while pressing a hand to the small of her back.

  He glanced at her stomach as he took the proffered money and grunted in a somewhat friendly way.

  “A dollar in change, please,” Diana added, not knowing what else to say. Mitch had told her to be pleasant and tentative. To try to elicit sympathy. When Marcel reached over the bar to give her the change, Diana dropped her hand from her back and sank onto a stool. She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed.

  “You okay?” he asked, his voice rich and low with concern. “Can I get you something?”

  Diana felt heat rise to her face and the sweat of embarrassment prickle under her arms. “No, no,” she stuttered, horrified at what she was doing—and how good she was at it. “I’m fine. Really I am.”

  Marcel looked at her closely. “My wife just had her second,” he said.

  Diana nodded. “Maybe a little water?” she asked tentatively.

  He quickly produced a glass of water. She took a few sips, and he watched her impassively until she emptied the glass.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I guess I just stood up too fast.” He nodded and began to turn away. Diana knew if she didn’t speak up now, she never would. “Excuse me,” she called, her voice a little breathless with trepidation.

  Marcel turned back to her. He said nothing, just waited, pokerfaced.

  “I—I was wondering if you could please help me?” Diana asked. When Marcel took a step closer, the flicker of concern registering on his stolid face, Diana shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said, pulling the photo from her purse. “It’s something else.”

  Warily, Marcel stepped back as she pushed the picture across the bar.

  “I’m looking for someone,” she said, her nervousness adding just the right amount of shakiness to her voice. “I really need to fin
d him.”

  Marcel glanced down at the picture, then up at Diana. His face was expressionless. He didn’t move. “Never seen any of them.”

  Diana pointed to Ethan. “Please,” she said plaintively, trying to make her eyes moist and sincere. “It’s really important.” She blinked rapidly and then looked down at the photograph, placing her hand lightly on her stomach. “I don’t know where he is,” she added softly, hating herself for what she was suggesting, while hoping that it worked. “I just need to talk to him.”

  Marcel reached for the picture. He studied it for a while, then placed it back down on the bar.

  “Ethan Kruse is his name,” Diana said, pointing again. “Do you know him?”

  Marcel squinted at Diana. “You’re that psychologist,” he said, his voice deadpan, but his eyes reflecting his all-too-complete awareness of her situation.

  Diana’s face flushed as she nodded. She felt naked and ashamed, unmasked for the liar she was. “Has he been in here lately?” she asked quickly to hide her embarrassment.

  “Not since before that Hutchins guy died,” Marcel said, pointing a splayed finger at James.

  Disappointed, Diana slumped on the stool. She twirled the empty glass on the bar.

  Marcel’s eyes flickered over her face, and a flash of empathy passed through them. “That one’s been here since then,” he said, pointing at Sandy. “With the other woman and her boyfriend, the professor.”

  “The other woman—was she tall with red curly hair?” Diana asked, figuring he must be talking about Jill.

  Marcel nodded.

  “But not Ethan?”

  Marcel turned and picked up a rag, studiously wiping the counter along the other side of the bar. Then he pivoted back toward Diana and added, “Been a lot quieter since those two guys stopped coming by.”

  “What do you mean?” Diana asked, leaning her elbows on the brass railing.

  Marcel said nothing for a moment. He studied Diana, then seemed to come to some kind of decision about her. “Especially Kruse. He’s been a regular here for years. I’ve had to cut him off lots of times. Got into fights.” He poked the picture again. “Was yelling at Hutchins one of the last times I saw him.”

  “Ethan and James had a fight in here?” Diana demanded. “Right before James was killed?”

  “Don’t know about right before,” Marcel said, picking up the rag again. “And it wasn’t a fight. Just yelling.” He turned and walked down to the far end of the bar.

  Disappointed, Diana watched his retreating back. Like so much of what she had learned about Jill, she already knew just about everything Marcel had told her about Ethan. His penchant for fights. His aggressiveness toward James. His disappearance. She was coming up empty again.

  Slowly Diana climbed off the stool and gathered her things. She left money on the table with her check and headed toward the door. As she passed Marcel, who was engrossed in his scrubbing with his back to her, she called out her thanks. Even she could hear the frustration and tiredness in her voice.

  “Try his landlady,” Marcel grunted without turning around. “He lives just down the street.”

  When Diana stepped out of the restaurant, the winter sun was still above the buildings. There was enough time and light left to go to Ethan’s apartment—she had even brought the address with her, knowing it to be the logical next step. But, as before, she didn’t want to go. For the more she thought about Ethan—about what he was capable of, about what he might have done—the more frightened she became. She might be stalking a killer. Or, if the eyes were more than her overactive paranoia, he might be stalking her.

  She glanced down at the piece of paper on which she had copied the address and phone number from Ethan’s chart. She had already called the number many times, listening to its hollow ring over and over again. And she knew the street. It was narrow and dingy and lined with seedy double- and triple deckers. It was in one of those “low-rent” districts in which poor people paid high rents to avoid security deposits and credit checks. The kind of neighborhood where everyone studiously minded his own business.

  Diana stood in front of the restaurant and eyed the traffic inching its way along the congested street, listening to the horns honking, the people yelling. She tried to convince herself that the trip would be pointless, that the landlady was sure to be oblivious of the rovings of her transient tenants. But, according to what Ethan had told her, Diana figured he must have lived at Sunderland Court for at least three or four years. So most likely the landlady knew something about him. If she was willing to talk.

  A truck was triple-parked in front of the karate studio next door to Ken’s, trapping a man who had double-parked. “Son of a bitch!” he was yelling, waving his arms indignantly, as if he were completely guiltless in his current bind. “Stupid, selfish son of a bitch!” Diana watched his futile flailing and then swung her purse over her shoulder, once again marching toward a destination she did not want to reach.

  Two blocks in from Mass Ave., Diana felt as if she were in a different world. She pulled her coat more tightly around her, although the afternoon was not cold. She stepped into the middle of the street, although the sidewalk was empty. The bustle and diversity of Central Square had silenced into a grimy sameness of streets littered with garbage and rusty cars. The houses she passed were tired structures whose sagging porches supported families of three-legged furniture. No one was about. If not for the haunting vision of the nursing mother behind bars, Diana would have quickly turned back.

  She rounded the corner onto the deadend Sunderland Court, finding more of the same kinds of houses as she tried to avoid the muddy potholes while searching for the correct address. She was surprised to discover that number 17 appeared to be a large, rather respectable house surrounded by a huge porch. But as she drew closer, she realized her original assumptions had been correct: the paint was peeling badly; the railing was broken in places and missing in others; and the floorboards of the porch were so rotted that she had to step carefully to make sure she didn’t fall through.

  The front door was slightly ajar and lopsided, swinging inward on only two of its three hinges. Diana glanced over her shoulder and then looked into the vestibule—if the dingy space filled with cartons and an amazing number of old television sets could be called a vestibule. She decided not to go in.

  Stepping back, she searched the row of buttons to the left of the door. A sign above the top button, scrawled in barely legible Magic Marker, read: “R. M. Masdea, D.D.S. No Appointment Necessary.” Next to the other half-dozen buttons were slots either empty or stuffed with ill-fitting pieces of paper. “E. K.” was scribbled along the side of the one that must belong to Ethan.

  As she pushed the buzzer next to the designation number one, guessing that might belong to the landlady, Diana looked through the murky window into Dr. Masdea’s mean little office. Despite her own fear and discomfort, she felt a rush of sympathy for those who had to let someone touch their teeth in such an awful room.

  “What?” demanded an annoyed voice from inside the house.

  Diana stepped gingerly around the television sets and looked up the large staircase that still retained some of its original grace, despite its missing balustrades and pitted wood.

  “What?” asked the young woman who approached the landing. Aside from her hair, which was wild and huge and unkempt, she seemed normal enough, as did the two toddlers peeking out from behind her legs.

  “I’m, ah …” Diana paused, although she was calmed by the sight of the children and the relatively ordinary-looking woman. “I’m looking for the landlady.”

  The woman squinted down at Diana and ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m her,” she finally said.

  Diana unbuttoned her coat and pressed her hand to her lower back. “Could I possibly speak with you for a few minutes?” She smiled and waved her fingers at the children and then added, “I promise I won’t be long.”

  The woman took in Diana’s stomach and walked clo
ser to the edge of the stairs, dragging the children along with her. “What do you want?” she asked, not unpleasantly.

  “I’m looking for Ethan Kruse,” Diana said, deciding on the direct approach, although she wasn’t sure why.

  “Comes and goes,” the woman said, crossing her arms. “Same as I told that cop.”

  Diana climbed a few steps and stood on a landing about a quarter of the way up so that she was directly facing Ethan’s landlady. “Have you seen him lately?”

  “You ain’t no cop, are you?” the woman demanded. The children were big-eyed and strangely silent, watching Diana.

  “I’m a friend of his,” Diana said, keeping her eyes locked onto the woman’s, trying to look as sincere as she could.

  The woman snorted. “Always had a lot of them,” she said, eyeing Diana’s stomach again. “You’re older than most.”

  “It’s really important that I find him,” Diana said, letting the woman think what she would.

  “You’re better off without him, honey,” the landlady said. “That guy’s no good. Never has been. Never will be. Best you take your baby and go.”

  “I plan to,” Diana said, nodding. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Slipped his rent under my door first of the month. Full amount in cash. Same as always.” She shrugged. “Last time I seen him.”

  Diana calculated quickly. The first of the month was well after James had been killed. This woman had seen Ethan more recently than anyone else. “So he was here within the last few weeks?” she asked. “He’s been home?”

  “Guess so.” She shrugged again. “Rent got paid. Like I told you, he comes and goes.” She leaned down and deftly lifted both children, mounting each on a hip. “Probably shouldn’t have let him stay after what happened before,” she said as she turned toward her door.. “But he pays the rent—and that’s more than most of these losers do.”