Line of Vision

by David Ellis

  “We don’t have to decide this right now,” says Mandy.

  If I lie to Paul now, I might be setting traps for him, and me, at trial. If I am caught lying about anything, anything at all, the jury will probably not believe a word I say.

  “I killed him,” I announce to the room. The lake, I swear, seems to kick up ever so slightly higher.

  24

  I LEAVE MY ATTORNEYS AFTER A GOOD TWO-HOUR meeting that turned decidedly sour once I confessed. Paul looked like he wanted to strangle me, like I had upset his planned defense for me. I told them that—to quote the legal language—I reasonably believed that Rachel was in fear of death or grave bodily harm, and I acted to save her life. At times during the session, I thought Paul was more drilling holes into our defense than building it. What was I doing there in the first place? Why was I wearing a ski mask, as Rachel told the police? Did Rachel know it was me? Why did Rachel call 911 if she wasn’t in any danger? Where’s the gun?

  Paul kept all of these questions in a hypothetical form, like he still wasn’t willing to concede that this would be my testimony. Assuming this is true, he would say, how would you have known to go there at nine-thirty? Assuming we go this route, why wouldn’t Rachel have recognized you?

  The best question Paul asked was the last one. It was put in the perfect way to avoid confirming my story. He did not ask, Where did you take Dr. Reinardt’s body? He asked, Will they ever find his body?

  I sure hope not, I told him.

  I’m still reeling a little, not entirely sure that I’ve made the right decision. I guess maybe I just needed to know that my defense was heading in some direction, if maybe the wrong one.

  So I need a little pick-me-up. I dial information on my car phone and try to remember the name of the reporter who has covered my story in the Watch. After a long delay from the dispatch, I finally get him.

  “This is Andy Karras.”

  “This is Marty Kalish.”

  “Oh.” Karras has made a couple of attempts to talk to me, but I referred him to Paul. Now that he’s got me on the line, he’s probably scrambling for his notepad. “I’m glad to hear from you, Mr. Kalish.”

  “It’s Marty. I just wanted to tell you I’m innocent.”

  “Okay. Well—that’s what you pleaded.”

  “I pleaded not guilty. I’m innocent.”

  A pause. “Can we meet?”

  “No. That’s it.”

  “Listen, Marty, I appreciate your calling. But ‘I’m innocent’ isn’t much to print.”

  “You’ll print it,” I say and hang up.

  And he does. It appears in the next day’s Watch, Metro section, as part of a five-paragraph summary of the case.

  It prompts a rather heated phone call from my lawyer, Paul Riley. Talking to the press is a big no-no, even if what I had to say was innocuous. The prosecutor won’t have much to work with from a declaration of innocence. I think what upset Paul most was that I broke his rules. I consider telling him so but don’t.

  “I just wanted it on the record,” I explain.

  “The only record that matters,” says Paul, “is the court record. And they’ve already got you down as not guilty.”

  Okay. Mea culpa. I’ll make a note of it, I promise him.

  “Believe it or not, I didn’t call you for the sole purpose of scolding you. I wanted to ask you about Rachel.” No longer “Mrs. Reinardt.” There is no need to ignore our relationship now.

  “Shoot.”

  “I wanted to ask you: Did you know Rachel was seeing a psychiatrist?”

  25

  I SPEND THE EVENING IN THE HOTEL ROOM WATCHING movies. There’s an adult movie on; one of the girls looks kind of like Rachel. I’ve watched it about five times this month, though I mute the sound because she doesn’t sound like Rachel, and that kills the illusion.

  So I’m doing the crossword puzzle at about eleven when the phone rings.

  Even as a whisper, the voice is unmistakable. “I saw you, Mr. Kalish.”

  So! My friend the Caller has decided to grace me with another contact. I wasn’t sure I’d be hearing from him now that I’ve been arrested. I’ve been waiting for the call, hoping for it, maybe, but until this moment I don’t realize how unlikely I thought it was.

  “Are you doing the right thing?”

  “You must have read the papers,” I say. “I confessed, remember?”

  “You pleaded not guilty. You told the paper you’re innocent. But I know you’re guilty.” A little bit of voice has crept into the breathy sound. He’s mad. I figured seeing the article in the paper might get a rise out of him.

  “Says you.”

  “Don’t make me come forward.”

  “Hey, bud.” I am almost playful. “I’ve already been arrested. Turning me in isn’t exactly a threat.”

  “I’ll tell them everything. Is that what you want?”

  “What did you see?”

  “You know what I saw.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Quit playing games,” he whispers harshly, though I detect a hint of uncertainty.

  “You quit playing games. How do I know you saw anything at all? How do I know you’re not full of shit? How do I—”

  “I saw you kill him.”

  My enemy has blinked. I am frozen for a second, surprised by these words, maybe even more surprised at their effect on me. I figured he would say this to me, but, more than I ever realized, I was hoping he wouldn’t. The stirring inside me now is familiar, all too familiar. He’s got a full house, but at least I’ve seen his hand.

  I hang up the phone and let out an audible sigh. I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. I can’t decide if I’m more disappointed or relieved.

  But at least now, finally, I know what I have to do.

  26

  THE OFFICES OF GREGORY D. QUILLAR AND ASSOCIATES are located in a suburb that I didn’t even know existed, twenty-some miles outside the city. The downtown is all of four square blocks of redbrick roads, with mostly clothing stores and banks. I park at a meter right in front of the office.

  The reception area is empty, with the exception of a spider climbing the back wall. On the lone desk are a phone and a legal pad, nothing more. People are not breaking down this guy’s door. And I don’t see any “associates.”

  There are two offices to the left of the dingy reception. A man steps out of one of them, almost surprised to see someone else in the place. He is black, heavyset, with dark-rimmed glasses and the stub of a cigar protruding from his mouth. I can smell the aftershave before he’s within five feet of me. He wears a blue plaid shirt and beige khakis, similar to what I’m wearing. “You the guy who called?” he says, removing the cigar from his mouth.

  I introduce myself.

  “Greg Quillar,” he says, shaking my hand. “Come in, we’ll find you a seat.” Which won’t be easy in this office. The place looks like it barely survived a tornado. Along the back wall is a short bookcase cluttered with loose papers piled high. A round table rests near the shaded window, covered with stacks of manila envelopes, decorated with stripes of light from the midmorning sun coming through the shades. On the floor next to the table is an assortment of camera equipment, sprawled about carelessly. The heater sitting in the corner, with paint peeling all around it, is working overtime, leaving the room oppressively hot.

  Quillar removes some files from the one chair he has, exposing dirty red cloth. He wipes at it with his hand, as if this will erase the embedded stain. Then he sits behind his desk and flips open a pad of paper. The combination of cologne and cigar smoke takes little time to reach the back of my throat.

  “Your ad said you do surveillance,” I say, taking my seat.

  “That’s right.”

  “Following around cheating husbands?”

  He smiles, flicks his cigar into a tin ashtray filled with other stubs. “Among other things.”

  “I need you to find out the identity of someone.”

  He nods i
mportantly, scribbling who knows what on the yellow pad. “Okay,” he says patiently, “what can you tell me about this person?”

  “Nothing. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “You’ve never seen him?”

  “No. But I know how to find him.”

  “Well, Mr. Kalish—” He catches himself uttering the name. His brow wrinkles and his lips purse as he stares at me a moment. He looks down at his notepad, where my name is probably written. His jaw drops slightly.

  “Yes,” I say simply, “I’m the one they’re accusing of killing that doctor in Highland Woods. Will that be a problem?”

  Quillar surveys the room, suddenly aware that he’s alone with a killer. He starts shuffling some papers. His eyes drop down below the desk; he’s probably got a gun in one of the drawers. Right now he’s wondering if he remembered to load the chamber. “That will, uh”—he clears his throat—“that’ll depend on what you’re asking me to do.”

  “I told you. I want you to find out who this guy is.”

  Quillar just sits there, with a troubled look on his face. The pencil falls out of his hand onto the pad of paper.

  I lean forward in my chair. “Do you want me to tell you I’m innocent?”

  He shakes his head without speaking, still more than a little wary of me.

  “Well, I am.” I pause, and he nods agreeably. He’s going to take this slow with me. “And I think this person has something to do with the crime,” I continue. “I’m not asking you to tangle with this guy. I just want to know who he is. If I’m right, and you help me catch this guy, you could be in for a good deal of publicity.”

  Quillar sighs. Now he is rearranging the pencils on his desk. Finally, he nods. “Well, I suppose if that’s all . . .”

  “That’s all. Tell me who he is. Name and address.”

  “And what, if you don’t mind my asking, do you plan to do with this information?”

  “Actually, I do mind.”

  He ponders this.

  “I’m not going to kill him,” I say, not hiding my irritation. It has come to this for me—I have to convince someone that I’m not going to commit murder. “I didn’t kill the doctor, and I’m certainly not going to kill this guy.”

  His lips curl into his mouth. “Okay, Mr. Kalish. Okay.” My money’s as green as anyone else’s, and from what I’ve seen, there hasn’t been much pouring in. He picks up his pencil again. “You say you know how to find this guy?”

  27

  “I APPRECIATE YOUR SEEING US, DOCTOR,” PAUL RILEY says to Benjamin Garrett. We sit in Garrett’s office, Paul, Mandy, Garrett, and I.

  Dr. Garrett is a lanky man, with only a few strands of white hair on the top of his head and a long face. Like many who lose it on top, Garrett compensates by growing it long and bushy on the sides and back. Pine green and hardwood are the fashion choices in the office of Rachel’s psychiatrist. I feel like I’m in a cabin in the woods. My lawyers and I sit on a long, cushy leather couch. I wonder if patients really lie down on these couches, if Rachel ever lay on this one.

  Dr. Garrett sits across from us, his diplomas covering the wall behind him. The blinds on the large window are pulled but flipped open, allowing sunlight to filter through and hit the floor in stripes at my feet.

  Paul is the one who will do the talking. He expresses his gratitude to Garrett for taking time out of his schedule for us.

  Garrett doesn’t seem to carry a torch for lawyers. “Obviously, the only reason I’ve agreed to speak with you is that Mrs. Reinardt has given me her permission.” And she insisted that I be there, along with my lawyers.

  Paul promises to be brief. “When did Mrs. Reinardt first begin seeing you?”

  “It would have been May, I think, of last year.”

  “Can you tell me her reason for seeing you?”

  “She said her friends had recommended the idea to her. She was very slow to open up to me. We would just talk about her and her husband, her charity work. It took probably three sessions for her to tell me why she had come to me.”

  “And that was?”

  Garrett sighs. “Her husband had been abusing her. Physically and sexually, for the last several months.” These words bring a charge in the air; neither Paul nor Mandy alter their facial expressions, but I know that this was what they wanted to hear. They need this testimony for our defense to have any prayer. Mandy glances over at me, and I make a point of looking unsurprised. Told you so.

  “Can you tell us how he abused her?” Paul asks.

  “His abuse took two forms: physical abuse by using a leather belt to whip her on the back; or sexual abuse, with no distinguishing characteristics, just classic nonconsensual intercourse.” He speaks clinically, no trace of emotion.

  My lawyers are far less concerned with this man’s sensibilities; he is building them a case. “How often did this happen?”

  “It happened whenever Dr. Reinardt was intoxicated. Which seemed to be at least one or two evenings a week.”

  “Was it always associated with alcohol?”

  “It’s only when he drinks,” Rachel told me, apologizing for her husband.

  “Apparently,” says the psychiatrist.

  “No exceptions that you know about?”

  “None.”

  “Doctor,” Mandy says, “when you say that there were no distinguishing characteristics associated with the sexual assaults, what do you mean? Can you describe how they took place?”

  “What I mean is that Dr. Reinardt would have sex with her whenever he pleased, without her consent. I wouldn’t say there was any pattern to it, although, again, I understand he was intoxicated every time.”

  “Was there force?” Paul asks.

  Garrett flashes him a cold smile. “Force,” he says, with a note of disdain. “An interesting word. Do you mean did he strike her before assaulting her sexually? No, he did not. Did he pry her legs open? No, he did not. But he unquestionably took her body for his own pleasure without her consent. Without seeking consent. That, in my mind, constitutes rape.”

  “And in mine as well, Doctor,” Paul says quickly. “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. I spent many years prosecuting people who did these things.” He pauses, and then speaks more quietly. “I’m just trying to understand the context, part of which is whether Dr. Reinardt used physical violence during the sexual abuse. He did not?”

  “She didn’t mention that.”

  “Do you know,” Paul says a little more cautiously, “whether he took her clothes off, or whether Mrs. Reinardt undressed?”

  Garrett puts his hands together, forming a temple. “Sometimes he told her to disrobe, and she complied. Other times he ripped the clothes. Other times, it was merely oral copulation, and I don’t suppose her state of dress was of concern.”

  “I see.” Paul shakes his head, pausing to show the proper respect, and then starts a new line of inquiry. “What did Mrs. Reinardt have to say about this?”

  Garrett’s hands come apart. “It’s difficult to know where to begin. She had lost any sense of herself. She considered herself an object of her husband’s, nothing more. I asked her whom she blamed for the attacks, and she couldn’t answer. She certainly didn’t blame him.”

  Paul nods. “Did she tell anyone else, to your knowledge, about this abuse?”

  “To my knowledge, no.” I notice Paul cut a glance in my direction.

  “Was she afraid of her husband?”

  “When the abuse first began, yes. But by the time she began to see me, she appeared to have resigned herself to it. She certainly didn’t enjoy it, but she seemed to accept it. However, about two months ago”—about a month before the shooting—“things did change somewhat. She began to fear for her life.” Mandy’s back straightens a notch or two. “The abuse became more pronounced, and more focused on the physical aspect. In fact, they had not had intercourse for about six weeks. But the beatings became more frequent, more severe. He would strike her with the belt more times, and he
was beginning to shout at her as well. He would tell her his problems were her fault, that she didn’t understand him and could not help him.”

  The room is quiet for a few moments. I find myself staring at the window blinds, listening to Garrett’s every word, and thinking of Rachel. The abuse she endured, the panic and hopelessness and fear, that no one in this room could ever comprehend.

  Paul finally speaks. “Did she actually say she feared for her life?”

  “Not in those words, no. She said he was becoming more violent, that he was scaring her. I asked her if she feared for her life. She said sometimes it seemed like he was enraged enough to kill her, especially the way he yelled at her. But she always came back to the same conclusion: that he would never be able to do it.”

  “Did you believe that?”

  “No. And I told her so. She was in denial.”

  Paul nods and looks at Mandy briefly. “Did Rachel ever have an affair?” The question brings me back to the reason why we are here, my criminal prosecution. The jury will be quite interested in this answer. My attorneys sure are. So am I, actually—I wonder how far Rachel went with her shrink.

  Garrett shakes his head. “She was faithful to her husband. She had absolutely no sense of her sexuality. Sex to her was punishment. In fact, when we would discuss it, she wouldn’t even call it sex. To her, it was just ‘penetration.’ It was nothing more than the physical act of Dr. Reinardt putting himself into her body.”

  “Did she ever mention Marty Kalish?” Paul asks without looking at me.

  I don’t know if it’s better for our case if he says yes or no. But I know what I want so desperately to hear: Yes, she talked about him all the time.

  “Not until after Mr. Kalish was arrested,” Garrett says to Paul, as if I’m not sitting next to him on the couch. “And only then, just to mention he’d been arrested.”

  “That was it?”

  “That was it.”