by Greg Herren
“When did you get here, Loren?”
“After they called me—around seven, wasn’t it?” He looked over at them.
Her face tight, Jillian nodded.
“Are you sure, Chanse?” Loren asked again. “Are you absolutely certain it was Freddy you saw? Think, Chanse. Are you positive it was Freddy you saw?”
I opened my mouth, and shut it again. My burger was churning in my stomach, and I felt like I was going to throw up any minute. Also, I was beginning to doubt myself. Loren was a damned good attorney, and that’s the role he was playing—he was cross-examining me. I closed my eyes and thought back. “Yes, I’m certain.” But now I wasn’t quite as certain as I had been.
“How far away were you?” Loren asked.
It was like being on a witness stand—which is something I’ve never enjoyed. A good lawyer can make you doubt yourself, twist your words to make it seem as if you were saying something other than what you meant. I swallowed and estimated the distance. “About twenty yards, maybe. I was under a street light, and when he walked under the streetlight just down from the house, I saw his face clearly. It wasn’t foggy yet, and yes, it was dark already, but I got a pretty damned good look at his face. And my eyes are good—I just had an examination a few weeks ago. They’re twenty-twenty.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t just someone who looked like Freddy?”.
“How many people look like a movie star?” I replied, raising my eyebrows. “Like Freddy Bliss?”
Freddy shook his head. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been.” His voice was shaky.
I stared at him. There was no point in arguing with him—he wasn’t going to change his story.
And he was an actor. He fooled people for a living.
Who would believe me over Freddy Bliss? And Jillian Long?
After all, I was just a gay private eye no one had ever heard of…
Loren went on. “You may have seen someone—” he emphasized the word, “come out of the victim’s—Glynis’s--house right around the time she may have been murdered.”
And I was in her house a few hours earlier. I handled the murder weapon.
I was starting to feel really sick to my stomach. “I saw Freddy.” I insisted.
“You were mistaken.” Jillian said, her voice rising. “You couldn’t have seen Freddy. He was here with me.” She crossed her arms.
“I know what I saw,” I replied.
“God fucking damn it!” Jillian exploded, lighting yet another cigarette. “I’m not going to argue with you.” She shook her head. “I know you’re wrong.”
I opened my mouth to make a sharp retort, but Loren cut me off.
“Jillian, if Chanse thinks he saw Freddy coming out of Glynis’s home, you’re not going to talk him out of it—and you shouldn’t even try. He’s a witness in a murder case.“ His tone was gently rebuking, implying that there could be legal ramifications. But I also noticed and bristled inwardly at the use of the word thinks
“Fine, fine.” Jillian turned to Freddy, and stroked the side of his face. She turned back to look at me. “You know, the great irony of all this is that in death, Glynis is going to get what she always wanted—to be a huge star. She’ll be a much bigger star in death than she was when she was alive.” She sighed. “It’s so wrong.” She covered her face with her hands and began to cry.
I’d seen her do that in Life in a Northern Town. She got an Oscar nomination for that movie.
“Get him out of here.” She said between sobs. “I don’t ever want to see his face again.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. It was quite a performance.
“Come on, Chanse, I’ll walk you out.” Loren opened the door.
Once we were outside the brick wall, standing on the sidewalk, Loren lit a cigarette of his own. “Christ, what a fucking mess this is turning into.” He exhaled, leaning back against the brick wall. “Well, I’m sure their million-dollar-a-year attorneys will soon be flying in and bumping me off this case. It can’t come soon enough.” He looked at me. “I recommend when you get home you unplug your landline.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“They’re releasing that statement in time for the ten o’clock news locally, and its going to break nationwide at the same time.” He shook his head. “When they talk to the police, they’re going to have to tell them about the e-mails and hiring you.” He made a face. “Leaks happen, Chanse. That’s going to get out—everyone in the world is going to be calling you once that story breaks. I don’t know if the news about Glynis has broken yet. Every reporter in the country is going to want ‘your story’ after that statement is released, and they’re going to be relentless, Chanse. And when they find out you’re a material witness?” He shook his head. “Do you have any idea what this is going to do to your life?”
I still felt like throwing up. “I can handle it.”
“Then do me a favor. Just hide out and get a lawyer. You know the cops are going to want to talk to you. For tonight, just hide the fuck out. For God’s sake, get yourself a good lawyer before you talk to them.”
“A lawyer? What the hell do I need a lawyer for?” I could feel my mind starting to slide down that dark path again, and I took some deep breaths. Imagine you’re on a beach, with the waves gently rolling to shore, and the sun is baking your skin while you lie on a towel.
Loren stepped closer to me and lowered his voice. “Chanse, you’re walking on dangerous ground right now. This is going to be bigger than the fucking O. J. Simpson case, Robert Blake, and Phil Specter fucking combined! Hell, I don’t know if I can handle this shit myself. Jillian wasn’t kidding when she said there was going to be a media circus. When she and Freddy got together, her ‘stealing’ him from Glynis was major news. Glynis was even on the cover of Vanity Fair, as the ‘wronged wife.’ Now, someone’s killed her. You may or may not have seen Freddy Bliss coming out of her house around the time she was killed. You also worked for Freddy and Jillian—and you know all about the e-mails. Hell, you were the one who found out where they came from. Yeah, you fucking need a lawyer. You needed a lawyer about an hour ago—and do not under any circumstances talk to the police without your lawyer. And I know Casanova and Tujague are your friends—but you can’t even trust them. Do you understand me?”
“I—“ I stared at him. I really hadn’t put that much thought into it. The concept that I would be a news story had never occurred to me. I’d killed two people, and both times it was maybe three paragraphs buried deep inside the pages of the newspaper. With a sinking feeling, I remembered Kato Kaelin.
Could my life bear that kind of scrutiny?
“People are going to offer you money for your story,” he went on. “That’s got Jillian and Freddy scared as hell. Sure, you signed a confidentiality agreement, and I hired you…the e-mail thing was bad enough, but you’re now a material witness in a major murder case.”
“I know what I saw.” I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets. “I saw Freddy, no matter what Jillian might say. They’re lying, Loren.”
“We shouldn’t even be having this conversation,” he replied. “I’m violating all kinds of ethics here. I’m talking to you now as a friend, not as a lawyer. Please listen to me, okay?” He ground his cigarette out with his shoe. “Depending on what evidence is in that house, those e-mails look bad for Freddy. A reputable eyewitness saw him leaving the scene of the crime around the time it may have happened. If Freddy wasn’t a major star, the police would haul him based on that alone.” He sighed. “I’m a good lawyer, but if they arrest him, they’re going to have to bring in a real heavy hitter. That lawyer is going to have to discredit you and your testimony, Chanse. I don’t doubt you can handle yourself with the police…” His voice trailed off. “I’m really not trying to scare you, Chanse…but think about it. You got a big check from Freddy and Jillian today. You were in Glynis’s house earlier today. You were in the vicinity of the house around the time she was killed. What do you think a
lawyer would make of that in court?” He folded his arms. “Maybe you confronted her and there was an altercation…you see where I’m going with this?”
My fingerprints were on the murder weapon, unless the killer wiped it clean.
“She was alive when I left the house.” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Her assistant can testify to that.”
“Do yourself a favor.” He reached into his wallet and handed me a business card. “Give this guy a call. I’ll phone him and let him know you’re calling.” He nodded and shut the door behind him.
I looked at the card.
STORM BRADLEY, ATTORNEY AT LAW.
I put it in my wallet. Feeling a little nauseous, I headed back to my car.
Chapter Six
If you solve this case, you’ll be famous, I thought as I walked back to my car. I felt a little numb—and nervous. My heart was racing, and I recognized what could be the signs of an onset of an anxiety attack. My palms were damp, and I could feel wetness under my arms. My breathing was fast, so I tried to focus on slowing it down. Esplanade Avenue was deserted, no signs of life anywhere. Not even a car passing through an intersection in the distance.
Glynis was dead; and according to Loren, I was all but arrested and charged for it.. But there had to be an up-side to this thing, right?
I let my imagination go. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime—solving one of the highest-profile murder cases in history. Whoever tracked down the killer would make headlines, would wind up being interviewed by the likes of Anderson Cooper and Larry King—and why shouldn’t that be me? Visions of fame and money danced through my head as I walked through the thickening fog.
I could get a book deal, and it would surely be made into a movie or a mini-series—at the very least an episode of City Confidential or American Justice. The trial would air live on Court TV.
Dream on, Chanse.
There was a piece of it that was real, though. Sure, Loren was right--I was mixed up in the middle of the whole thing. But the best way to clear everything up really would be to prove that Freddy hadn’t killed his ex-wife—and neither had I.
I was disturbed by the weak identification I was going to have to make to the police. It bothered me that Loren had so easily shaken my identification of the guy coming out of the house. I’d been completely sure it was Freddy at the time—it was only later that doubt crept in. And that doubt had been planted by Loren..
It’s pretty much taken for granted that eyewitnesses make mistakes. Defense attorneys frequently hammer that point home to juries. We see what we expect to see. Our memories are filtered by our experiences and prejudices. I’d seen someone dressed similarly to the way Freddy had been at our meeting earlier that day, and with the same kind of build, coming down the front steps of his ex-wife’s house. It was entirely possible that all of those factors had added up in my mind to recognition.
Had it really been Freddy?
If Freddy was indicted and went to trial, his attorneys would dig into my past.
Can your life bear that kind of scrutiny?
I remembered how other witnesses in major murder trials had been treated by the press. I didn’t want to be another Kato Kaelin. They would dig up everything they possibly could on me, and make it public knowledge. They’d track down my parents in Cottonwood Wells, my brother Rory, my sister Daphne in Houston—and I could be relatively certain Daphne wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion. I could give a rat’s ass about my parents—I hadn’t talked to them in years.
I imagined the look on my father’s face when some reporter asked him about his gay son, and it made me smile. The thought of how humiliated he’d be when everyone in that miserable little town found out that his big football star son was a big old homo was a very amusing one indeed. But Daphne—and my brother Rory—how would they feel about having their own lives intruded on? I hadn’t talked to Rory in years, either. I’d cut him off when I’d cut off Mom and Dad
The thought of having all the stuff about Paul dredged up also worried me. Not because it made me look bad—it might, it might not. My therapist was always telling me that the situation wasn’t as bad as I made it out to be…but there was his family to think about. How would the Maxwells, who’d taken me in as part of their family, and maintained that tie after Paul died, feel about having their beloved son’s memory tarnished and trashed on the national news?
He’d been kidnapped by an obsessed stalker, someone who’d struck him a terrible blow to the skull in order to take him from his apartment. Maybe with prompt and immediate medical attention, he would have had a chance. Instead, he’d been handcuffed to a bed, not fed or given anything to drink, and he’d begun the slow and agonizing process of dying. By the time we found him, he’d lapsed into the coma from which he’d never wake. After a few days, his family made the agonizing decision to turn off the machines that breathed for him, and he’d died. For the next year, I’d thought of my life as being clearly divided by that terrible day at Touro Hospital—before and after. In my misery and grief, I’d tried to move forward with my life.
But I felt guilty about Paul’s death; guilty because while I was looking for him I’d allowed myself to get distracted away from my primary objective—finding him—because of other things that were going on, side trails I’d followed that eventually proved to have nothing to do with him. I kept thinking, If only I were a better detective, I could have found him sooner, I could have found him when there was still a chance for him to make a recovery and he would still be with me. Instead, he’d died, and that guilt haunted me.
But maybe none of that would come up.
Maybe it wouldn’t come to that.
Maybe, like my therapist said, I was just imagining the worst again.
But I was in a bad spot, and the best way out was to solve the case.
But how? I wouldn’t be able to interview witnesses, get access to evidence, or even conduct any semblance of a normal investigation. The police wouldn’t want me interfering in their investigation.
As for the fame, truth be told, it was a nice fantasy. When I was young, I used to fantasize about being rich. I always, when I was a kid, thought the reason our lives were so miserable was because we were poor, because we lived in a trailer park, because we didn’t get to wear nice clothes and have nice things like so many of the other kids in Cotttonwood Wells. Daphne, Rory and I weren’t the only poor kids in town—but it seemed to me like we were. Other kids didn’t have mothers who wore faded old sweats and reeked of gin or vodka at the Kroger. Other kids didn’t have clothes that didn’t quite fit right, didn’t wear their clothes till they wore through in places, and didn’t have to eat bologna sandwiches for lunch every day.
When I started playing football and became someone more than the big kid from the trailer park, when I started getting invited to the parties the rich kids threw, I never felt like I belonged there, no matter how badly I wanted to. I wanted to be rich and famous and come back to Cottonwood Wells and make all those rich kids who made me feel like trailer trash grovel before my wealth and power. But as I got older, I was more concerned with getting out of Cottonwood Wells then avenging myself on the rich kids
. At LSU, I had a taste of fame as a three year letterman on a damned good football team. Other students recognized me when I walked to class, and in restaurants and bars, so did the more rabid football fans. But I knew damned well that if I wasn’t on the football team, Beta Kappa would have never given me a bid to join their fraternity. I was never comfortable with the status I had as a football player..
So forget the fantasy. I didn’t want to be famous. I didn’t even care about being rich any more. All I cared about was being comfortable, not having to worry about paying my bills—and I’d already achieved that.
But if Glynis Parrish’s killer was never brought to justice, my credibility would be gone forever. I would be known as ‘that guy who blew the case because he couldn’t make a positive identification of Freddy Bliss—who paid
him money.’ I’d be even more notorious than Mark Fuhrman.
Could Barbara Castlemaine, my boss at Crown Oil, afford the bad publicity of keeping me on under those circumstances?
I could lose everything.
That reality was the final trigger. As I slid behind the wheel of my car, the anxiety attack started for real.
You’re going to lose everything you’ve worked for your entire life. Your life is fucked now. You don’t have a choice. You’re going to have to hope that either the police solve the case or you solve it for them. If the killer is never found, it isn’t just Frillian’s heads it will hang over—it will hang over yours. You will always be known as the guy who fucked up the Glynis Parrish murder. No one will hire you. People will whisper about you when you walk by. You’ll lose your job with Barbara, and then what the fuck are you going to do?
The thoughts swam through my mind as my heart raced and my breath came in gasps.
Think happy thoughts, Chanse. Go to that beach in your head. Green waves lapping against the white sand. The sun is shining and a soft breeze is blowing. You’re lying on a towel, soaking up the sun’s rays, everything is peaceful, everything is fine.
My heart rate slowed.
The dark spots in front of my eyes disappeared.
I’d beaten it again.
I sat there, behind the wheel, focusing on breathing in and out slowly and carefully. I started the car , turning the defroster on high, and watched as the fog on the windshield started to clear from the bottom up. I glanced at my watch. It was barely nine o’clock. They were about to send out their press release.
Even if they didn’t say a word about me, it was only a matter of time before my name would be uncovered as a witness.
My life was going to change completely—it would never be the same again.
You should have gotten out of this when you had the chance.
In less than twenty-four hours, my life was going to be completely different. I pounded on the steering wheel in frustration.