Name Games

by Michael Craft

  The man was far more perceptive than I’d anticipated. Was he cunning as well, attempting to cover his tracks and win our confidence? Or was he simply being candid? Though I had little to go on, I was inclined to take him at his word.

  Leaning toward us, elbows on knees, he continued, “Doug and I are very different people, but we’ve always respected each other. Without him, I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I have in the department. I really like the guy—so does my wife, so do my kids. The note makes public a sensitive issue that’s been the topic of lots of speculation for years, and I can imagine how rough this is on him. If Doug is gay, that’s his business. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is this: he’s a great cop, and he would never stoop to murder, not even to salvage his career.”

  His words had a familiar ring. With a soft laugh, I told him, “Doug says the same about you.” I hadn’t intended to participate in this discussion, but it had taken an unexpected turn. We could drop the pretense that this was an endorsement interview.

  “I’m flattered,” said Kerr, “but I’m also worried. After all, the note casts suspicion on both Doug and me. If the note is genuine, Doug would have a clear motive for murder; if the note is bogus, I’d have the clear motive to plant it.”

  Lucy nodded, recognizing his succinct appraisal of the situation. “We have a dilemma, then,” she told him. “Would you be willing to help us sort it out?”

  “What I can tell you is limited, naturally. But go ahead and ask.”

  “What’s your own assessment of the note—fake or real?”

  He leaned back in his chair, exhaling loudly. “There’s very little to go on. I suppose you’ve heard that I neglected to check the laptop for fingerprints before I went to work on it.”

  “We have.” Lucy underlined some detail of her notes. “This may seem like an obvious question, but did you happen to notice the time-and-date stamp of the computer the that contained the note?”

  “Certainly. The note was written Sunday morning at one minute past seven.”

  Lucy frowned. “That puts it before the murder—the coroner estimates that Cantrell died around nine, so maybe he did write the note.”

  I told her, “Not if the computer was set to California time, two hours earlier.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Kerr. “People reset their watches when traveling between time zones, but I doubt if they bother with their computers.”

  “Yeah,” said Lucy. Taking this line of thought further, she added, “And have you ever noticed how computer clocks never seem to be set correctly? They’re always off by a few minutes.”

  “Right,” agreed Kerr. “So if the seven-o’clock note was really written at nine o’clock central time that morning, give or take a few minutes, that puts it very near the time of death.”

  Thinking aloud, I told them, “That’s consistent with my theory that the note was planted by the killer shortly after the murder. Consider the alternative: it seems highly improbable that Cantrell would write the note one minute and get murdered the next.”

  Kerr nodded. “By that reasoning, Doug is probably off the hook.”

  “So are you,” Lucy told him. “Mark didn’t discover the body till around eleven-thirty, so it must have been nearly noon before you arrived on the scene.”

  Kerr’s features brightened. “And the laptop wasn’t in my possession till several hours later. I can’t recall even glancing at its clock. I’ll check it first thing when I get back to the department. I’ll bet it is on California time, which would mean the note was written by the killer at the crime scene.”

  There was a moment’s silence while we all pondered this. On the one hand, it was heartening to approach the conclusion that neither Pierce nor his deputy was guilty of the crime; on the other, it threw the investigation back to square one.

  Then I thought of a wrinkle. Standing, I paced the office while telling them, “Sorry, Dan, but these circumstances don’t completely exonerate you. There are two possibilities that we haven’t considered. First, even though you arrived at the crime scene around noon, that doesn’t negate the possibility that you slipped up to the coach house earlier—for whatever purpose. Second, even if you had not been there before noon and you didn’t have possession of the laptop till later, you could still have reset the computer clock, planted the note to look as if it had been written earlier, then set the clock back to the correct California time.”

  Lucy arched her brows, impressed that I’d suggested these scenarios. She was drawing a grid on her notepad, organizing her thoughts graphically.

  Kerr had listened intently, without taking offense—he understood that my intention was not to accuse him, but merely to raise issues that would have to be addressed. He told me, “The first possibility—that I sneaked up there earlier—is easily dismissed. At nine Sunday morning, I was at church with my family, and there were hundreds of God-fearing witnesses who saw me.”

  Lucy drew a big X over one of the squares on her grid.

  Kerr continued, “The second possibility—that I rigged the computer clock—is tougher to disprove, and frankly, I’m not sure that I can. Truth is, I’m not all that familiar with laptops. I don’t own one, and I don’t think I’d be clever enough to rig its clock.” He asked anyone, “Is it difficult?”

  Lucy wagged her head. “Not at all.” She was speaking, of course, from the perspective of a computer wiz, a true-blue techie, but I tended to agree with her—Kerr doubtless had sufficient wits to figure out the clock on Cantrell’s laptop.

  Strolling behind Lucy, I glanced over her shoulder at her notes. She had scrawled a snaky question mark over one of the squares on her grid. Looking across the table toward Kerr, I said, “For purposes of this discussion, Dan, I’m assuming that the extortion note was bogus—Cantrell didn’t write it, and Doug didn’t kill him. I’m also willing to assume your noncomplicity in writing and planting the note. But if you didn’t do it, who could have, and why?”

  He shrugged. “There weren’t that many people who even had access to the computer. If we assume that the clock was not tampered with, the note was probably planted by the killer, right there in the coach house at the time of the murder—it could have been anyone—anyone, that is, with a motive. On the other hand, if we assume that the clock was tampered with, the note was probably planted after the computer was in police custody.”

  Lucy asked, “Who had access to it besides you?” She started marking off the rectangles of a new grid on her notepad.

  Ticking off possibilities on his fingers, Kerr answered, “Doug had access, as did a handful of department clerks and technicians, and of course the DA’s office.”

  The pen in Lucy’s hand froze. “The DA? Did you ever see Harley Kaiser in direct contact with the computer?”

  “Yes,” Kerr answered, hesitating, “I think so. Well, maybe. There was a lot going on down at the department later that afternoon and into the evening. Harley was around the bull room when I started my search of the victim’s files, but I didn’t pay much attention to him—I was focused on the files.”

  While Lucy embellished one of her grid squares with curlicues, I asked Kerr, “Was Kaiser ever alone with the computer?”

  “Hard to say. I left my desk from time to time, and he may have been hanging around. He was there when I went home Sunday night—he’d asked to use the phone on my desk, and he was still talking when I left.”

  I sat down next to Lucy and looked Kerr in the eye. “Could you tell who was on the other end of the phone?”

  “Sure,” he said without a moment’s thought, “it was Ben Tenelli. Harley addressed him as ‘Doctor’ and asked about Mary. So?”

  “Dan,” I said, amazed that he saw no significance to this detail, “aren’t you aware that Kaiser and Tenelli are buddies on the porn-shop issue? Kaiser is preparing to bring a must-win obscenity case to trial, and Tenelli has just issued a report from the County Plan Commission that strongly supports Kaiser’s case.”

&nbs
p; Kerr repeated, “So? I support the obscenity ordinance myself—it’s one of the few real issues in this election. Plenty of folks are just plain sick of having that trashy element at the edge of town.”

  “Fine,” I said, growing frustrated, “but for the moment, that’s not the issue. Consider this: only yesterday afternoon, a probate investigation revealed that Carrol Cantrell owned the controlling interest in a porn-video production company.”

  “Yes”—Kerr nodded slowly—“I saw that report.”

  “Also yesterday, Lucy’s own research on behalf of the Register revealed that Cantrell was in thick with the ACLU, having successfully testified as an expert witness at various smut trials. We also know that Cantrell’s true purpose in coming to Dumont was to thwart Kaiser’s big case. We suspect that Kaiser may have been aware of Cantrell’s background. The stakes are extremely high for Kaiser—the last thing he needed was Cantrell encamped here.”

  “You’re not suggesting—?” Kerr couldn’t bring himself to voice the thought.

  “I’m suggesting that there may be a conspiracy of interested parties, attempting to influence the outcome of that trial. I’m suggesting that your political stand on this single issue—obscenity—makes you an attractive candidate to those with an agenda. Dan, have you considered that you may have become a pawn in something rather sinister?”

  Kerr weighed my words, then stood. From his blank expression, I could read neither humiliation nor outrage—either emotion was justified by the circumstances. He paced the length of the room, then turned to me. “Mark”—his voice was calm, inflection flat—“I simply can’t believe that there’s anything of that sort going on. I understand that Harley has an awful lot riding on this trial, but he wouldn’t kill to assure its outcome. And as for Doc Tenelli, well, my God, the man is beyond reproach.”

  “Then what was he doing out at Star-Spangled Video on Monday morning?”

  “What?” asked Lucy and Kerr in unison.

  “Doug and I were out near the edge of town Monday, checking another lead, when we saw Tenelli’s new car at Star-Spangled. Apparently he’d just picked it up—maybe he thought no one would recognize it. We didn’t know it was his till late yesterday, when Doug and I saw it at his house.”

  Kerr shook his head. “You must be mistaken. Tenelli wouldn’t—”

  “Dan, I’m positive. I recognized the tape marks from the window sticker—it was the same car.”

  Lucy’s grid now had a few new squares on it. “I think I’ll run some routine record checks, Mark. Taxes and such. There must be some connection we’re not aware of.”

  “Good idea,” I told her.

  Kerr insisted, “You’re looking for boogeymen under the bed, but there’s nothing there.” He paused before adding, “Something is troubling me, though.”

  I stood and stepped a few paces toward him, waiting to hear it.

  From where she sat, Lucy asked, “What is it, Deputy?”

  He collected his thoughts, as if checking facts against his memory, before telling us, “When I found the extortion note on the laptop on Monday, it was of course a breakthrough clue, and a highly sensitive one at that—the political implications for both Doug and me were obvious. But instead of congratulating myself on a job well done, a mission accomplished, I was embarrassed by the fact that I hadn’t found it during my initial search on Sunday. The file containing the note was in a directory that I was sure I’d already gone over—how could I have missed it?”

  I suggested, “Maybe you were overtired on Sunday.”

  “I was. Still, the whole thing struck me as…funny.”

  Lucy said, “It strikes me as ‘funny’ too.”

  Glancing back at her, I saw that one of the squares on her grid had been blackened by doodles.

  Thad was in a hurry that night, but he wanted to share the events of his school day with us. So Neil and I hustled to get dinner on the table by six-thirty, forgoing the ritual of our cocktail hour, intent on enjoying some quiet time together after Thad left the house.

  “What time are callbacks?” Neil asked Thad while heaping a second mound of butter-streaked mashed potatoes on his plate.

  “Seven-thirty.” He looked over his shoulder at the wall clock.

  “Eat,” Neil commanded through a grin. “There’s plenty of time.”

  I grinned too. During the weeks Neil had spent in Dumont working on the Quatro project, he’d proven himself a natural at parenting. Though I’d known all along that he possessed many sterling qualities (after all, I “married” the guy), this particular talent came as a surprise to me. Neil was one of the most urbane men I’d ever met; he skillfully wore his intellect and his sophisticated tastes without pretense. I’d seen him adapt his life to mine before, but I would never have guessed that he could so seamlessly slide into the role of “Thad’s other dad”—or whatever term best fit this unexpected relationship. In truth, he’d adapted to our offbeat family better than I had, without fretting over the names for our new roles. While I studiously analyzed every niggling situation, attempting to weigh consequences and predict outcomes, Neil simply “went with it.”

  That Wednesday evening, he’d arrived home from work, learned that Thad had been called back for final auditions for the school play, and was determined to get a square meal on the table in time to let the three of us share some “quality time” before Thad would rush back to school. It wasn’t elegant—we were seated in the kitchen—but it was a real dinner, nothing from a bag fetched at a drive-through. Neil had broiled chicken, creating a mysterious but wonderful sauce with whatever was at hand. I took charge of the salad. Thad mashed potatoes. A green vegetable managed to appear. And now we were eating dinner together like three adults—an amazing accomplishment, considering that one of us was only sixteen.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” Thad was saying, “when I saw my name on the callback list. I think I’ve actually got a chance.”

  “There are only so many roles,” Neil reminded him. “But even if you don’t end up being cast, it’s an honor to be called back.”

  Clearly, Neil was trying to soften the possible blow of disappointment, but Thad didn’t hear it—he was hyped. Swallowing a gulp of milk, he said, “And now I’ve been called back twice.”

  I was confused. Since I’d never been in a play, this process was foreign to me, and with the murder on my mind since the weekend, I hadn’t paid adequate attention to Thad’s quest to be cast in Arsenic and Old Lace. Wiping my lips with my napkin, I asked him, “You’ve already auditioned twice?”

  “Yeah. General tryouts were after school on Monday. I was nervous, but I must have done okay—Mrs. Osborne called me back with a bunch of others yesterday after school. She said that final callbacks would be tonight, and I made the list. There aren’t that many of us.”

  “That’s great,” I told him, cuffing his shoulder. “You made the final cut.”

  “I’m glad I took the time to read the script first. It really helped.” He turned to Neil. “Thanks for telling me to do that. Nobody else even bothered—I could tell.” Thad ate more of his chicken. “This is good. What’s in it?”

  Neil laughed. “Beats me. I was sort of rushed.”

  “Gosh,” I said wistfully, “this recipe will never be duplicated. Enjoy it while you can. It is good, kiddo.”

  Brushing off our compliments, Neil feigned demure modesty, telling us, “I’m not accustomed to such flattery.” He said it with a Southern accent, like some fragile Tennessee Williams heroine.

  Thad found this hilarious, repeating the line, embellishing the accent. My God, I thought, maybe he does have a knack for theater.

  Neil asked him, “Does Mrs. Osborne have a particular role in mind for you? By this stage, you can usually tell.”

  “She had me reading lots of parts at first, but last night, she kept asking me to read the part of Dr. Einstein—he’s pretty cool.”

  “Dr. Einstein?” I asked, not remembering that character, at least not by name.r />
  Neil said, “He’s Jonathan’s sidekick, the plastic surgeon who made the evil brother look like Boris Karloff.”

  “Of course,” I remembered, “the Peter Lorre role in the movie. You’d have a lot of fun with that one, Thad.”

  Neil asked him, “Have you been reading it with the accent?”

  Thad’s face went blank. “What accent?”

  Neil had to think about it. With a laugh, he admitted, “I’m not exactly sure what the accent was—I don’t remember if the script spells out where Einstein is from. But Peter Lorre played it sort of German, sort of Eastern European, sort of weaselly. Like: ‘But, Chonnie, vee got a hot shtiff in the mumble seat.’”

  Neil’s mimicking was more than passable—it was surprisingly good—and both Thad and I broke into laughter and applause.

  Thad said, “Let me try it.” And he did. After several tries, with Neil coaching him, Thad had it nailed, and he began practicing the accent on new sentences. He really had an ear for it.

  Neil cautioned him, “Your director may not care for the accent, and she’s the boss. So when Mrs. Osborne asks you to read the role for the first time tonight, tell her you’d like to try something new with it, then do the accent once. If she likes it, keep it up, but if she’s cool toward it, drop it and read the role straight.”

  “Right,” said Thad, nodding that he understood the plan. There was such energy in his eyes, though, I got the distinct feeling we’d be hearing a lot of that accent for weeks to come.

  Within a few minutes, we’d finished the chicken. As there hadn’t been time to fuss with dessert (which Thad wouldn’t have had time to eat anyway), our meal was over. Thad offered, “I’ve got to run, but I can help clear this stuff first.”

  I was stunned—when did he get so agreeable?

  Neil told him, “That’s okay; we’ll take care of it. But go brush your teeth first. And use mouthwash. Respect your instrument.”