“That’s right. And, Matt, I don’t see how he can fail to win, as things stand now. They can put Dan right inside the house. Angry. He broke those banister posts. There were microscopic splinters in the creases of his hands. Little chips of paint, too. Both matched.”
I could see now why she’d been inside so long. They kept her around to taunt her with all these test results.
“I still think he’s innocent.”
Eve took my hand this time. She spoke to me as she might to a three-year-old. “Matt, you’re a good friend. But it’s a matter of a few years versus his whole life. Don’t you owe it to him to talk some sense into him?”
I have never been more confused. Everything Eve said made things look worse. Yet Dan had been surprised, dammit. I knew him. Then again, I’d thought I’d known people before ...
“All right, God damn it, all right.” I rubbed my eyes. “When do I see him?”
“He’s being arraigned tomorrow morning—”
“This morning?”
“That’s right!”
“They’re not wasting any time, are they?”
“Why should they?” I didn’t have an answer for that, so Eve went on. “Anyway, I’ll arrange for you to talk to him right after they bring him to the other jail. Meanwhile, I’ll sound Wernick out about the deal.”
“All right,” I said, then swore. I pulled out my wallet and threw some money on the table. “Let’s get out of here,” I said.
“You didn’t finish your breakfast.”
I looked at her and tried to decide whether to laugh or cry. It was a draw. My face felt dead. I told Eve I’d ordered too heavy a breakfast anyway. We shook hands outside. She went to her office; I went back to the Sewanka Inn and tried to care about cable TV franchises.
CHAPTER 13
“Welcome to Fantasy Island!”
–Ricardo Montalban, “Fantasy Island” (ABC)
I GAVE UP ON the hearing after twenty minutes. I went up to my room, took a shower to wash the night off me, and went to bed. I slept surprisingly well; I dropped right off and had no nightmares, about Spot or anything else. It lasted about an hour and forty minutes.
The phone rang. I grabbed it, and in the half-second or so between the time I took it off the cradle and the time I brought it to my ear, all sorts of wonderful scenarios dashed through my brain. Debbie wasn’t really dead. The police had caught a mad karate expert who had escaped from an institution to terrorize the countryside. Spot had developed the power of speech (shades of my nightmare) and provided eyewitness testimony that somebody else—like Grant Sewall or somebody—had done Debbie in.
No such luck. The caller was Hans, from the restaurant. He was in tears.
“What’s the matter, Hans?”
“The police are coming. They have said they want to come to talk to me about the murder of Daniel’s young lady.”
“Routine. I told him we’d had a talk there. They’ll just want to see if you can confirm it.”
“What should I tell them, though?”
“The truth, Hans. Just tell them the truth.”
“Everything? Even what I later overheard?”
“What’s that, Hans?”
“I am walking around, making sure everything is okay. I hear Daniel say, ‘If I must strangle her, this wedding will I stop!’ Do you want me to tell this to the police? If you say so, I will not tell them. If they ask me, I will lie.”
I didn’t say anything. Hans said, “Matthew, what should I do?”
I looked at the ceiling. I remembered once in kindergarten, at report-card time, the teacher wrote in the teacher’s comments, “Matthew is a very responsible child.” I asked my parents what it meant. My father, a renowned wit, said, “It means when anything goes wrong, you’re responsible.” Everybody laughed, and I got indignant until matters were explained to me. Then I laughed, too. I was beginning to think, though, that what my father said was more a prophecy than a joke.
Why does it always fall to me to make these goddam decisions? I asked the universe. The universe told me to shut up and get on with it.
If Hans lied, the police would be denied another incriminating fact. I mean, Dan was only using a figure of speech, but by the time the DA got through with it, it would sound like Dan had signed a confession in triplicate. So it would be nice to keep that out of their hands.
On the other hand, if they found out anyway, not only would Dan be in deep yogurt, Hans and I would be there along with him. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of going to jail, and I was even less crazy about sending old Hans there, just for being a good friend.
Still, if I said it was okay, Hans would go out there and lay the foundation for a charge of premeditation. Of course, we were going to plea-bargain away from all of that I snorted. “We.”
No. Couldn’t risk it. “Tell them the truth, Hans,” I told him. “Anything they ask you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t keep asking me that. Yes, I’m sure,” I lied.
Hans bubbled over again. “If only he’d listened to me,” he sobbed. “Forget about her, that’s what he should have done.”
It was depressing to realize that despite his obviously genuine concern, Hans had no doubt whatever that Dan was guilty. I sighed and thanked him and hung up.
As soon as I did, the phone rang again. It was my wakeup call. It was time to go to the jail and talk to my friend and convince him to stand up in court and say he killed the woman he loved.
Dan was no longer in the local lockup. He’d been transferred sometime before sunrise to the county penitentiary, a yellow brick building outside of town. It looked like a small electronics factory or maybe a junior high school, except maybe for the armed guards.
Eve had supposedly cleared the way for my appearance with those who had to approve, but I was still a good half hour being frisked, questioned, checked, and generally intimidated.
Finally, I was led to the visitors’ room, something like the lobby of an unsuccessful bank. The thick Plexiglas windows looked like tellers’ cages, and the guards looked like bank guards everywhere, only more bored.
I sat down on a little stool in front of one of the windows and waited. Two guards led Dan to the window. He was manacled. No one, it seemed, was taking any chances with the Mad Karate Killer.
Dan showed me a crooked smile as he sat and picked up his telephone receiver. I picked up my own and got on with things.
“Another fine mess I’ve gotten me into,” he said.
I wanted to tell him to knock off the macho bullshit, but after a moment’s consideration, I decided it might not be such bullshit after all Dan had gone through a lot during the last couple of days. The least I could do was let him hold on to his courage.
“We’ve got good people working on it,” I told him.
“The lady lawyer?”
“Yes. And anybody else we need to get”
“Like who?”
“Lab experts. Private eyes. Doctors—”
The phone made his voice tinny and filtered some of the emotion from it. Some. Not nearly enough to hide the scorn when he said, “Doctors?”
Dan grabbed a bearded cheek with one strong hand and made a fist, twisting his handsome face into a passable imitation of the Horrible Melting Man. He squeezed hard and kept it up for a good five seconds. It hurt just to look at him. I couldn’t even tell him to stop because he had the phone away from his ear.
At last he let go and talked to me again. “Your lawyer friend,” he said slowly, “thinks I killed Debbie.”
“She doesn’t. It doesn’t matter what she th—”
“She wants me to plead guilty!” He hissed it.
“She’s trying to do her best for you. Have you considered the alternatives, Dan?”
Dan’s face died. The only signs of life in it at all were the red marks where he’d squeezed it. He looked at me that way for ten seconds. Long, miserable seconds. At last, I looked away.
“You too, Matt?
Of all people? Want me to take the easy way? What happened? Your job finally corrupted you? It’s funny. I would have said it was impossible. Of course, I would have said a lot of things were impossible.”
“Dan,” I said, “we’re talking about the rest of your life.”
“I’m innocent”—he’d started shouting; the guard took a step toward him, and his voice dropped to a whisper—“I’m innocent, you stupid son of a bitch! And I have considered the alternatives. Let me tell you, Matt, in a world where Debbie’s been murdered and you’ve sold me out, prison doesn’t seem all that bad. Except for one thing. If I get this hung around my neck, the guy who killed Debbie is going to get away with it.”
Dan hung up the phone and turned around to call for the guard to take him away. I couldn’t let that happen yet, so I gave the glass an open-palmed smack that rattled it like a basketball backboard. Dan picked up the phone again.
“All right,” I told him. “You’re the boss. If money, brains, and perseverance can get you loose, you will be gotten loose. I’m proud of you, Dan. I think you’re a horse’s ass, but I’m proud of you.”
“Why am I a horse’s ass? Because I want to fight for my name?”
“No, because you’re going to trust my brain to figure a way to do it.”
“Yeah,” he said. “After this bullshit this afternoon, I think you’ve got a point.”
I called him a name, and we laughed. Then the laughter stopped, and Dan began to weep. It was something I’d never seen before. Tears rolled down his face and wet his beard. “I didn’t kill her, Matt, I swear. I couldn’t kill her. I loved her. You’ve got to help me.”
And so on. “You’ve got it, partner,” I told him. “I promise. Listen. I’m going to try to come back here later, with Eve Bowen; maybe I can talk to you in person. If I can’t, you’ll talk to her, but in either case, I want you to think about everything that happened the other night. Every single thing. I need whatever I can get—”
“There is something!” Dan said. “I thought you knew it, but I guess not It probably won’t do any good anyway.”
I was about to tell him to let me worry about that but was interrupted by a hand on my shoulder. Mr. Outside. He said, “Time’s up.”
I wanted to shove him away and berate him for interrupting an important conversation, but reason prevailed. I couldn’t do Dan much good if I was in jail, too. I’d get the news later.
I told Dan to keep fighting, then allowed Mr. Outside to show me the door.
Just before I left, I looked back over my shoulder where Dan’s guard was adjusting the manacles. Dan managed to raise a hand enough to give me a thumbs-up signal.
His faith, I thought, was touching. It’s always nice to have something to live up to. I left the building and went to meet Eve. I was interested to see how she’d react to the news that any deal she’d managed to cook up with the DA was off.
CHAPTER 14
“Make sure you are right; then go ahead.”
–Fess Parker, “Disneyland” (ABC)
EVE CAUGHT UP WITH me at her office; I was just hanging up the phone as she walked in. “I hope you don’t mind,” I told her. “Long-distance call. Your secretary said it would be all right.”
She looked angry, but she said, “Of course it’s all right Whom did you call?”
“The Network. I was quitting my job, so I didn’t think it was right to call collect.”
Eve looked at me as if I were crazy. “You quit your job?”
“Yes. I’m damned if I’m going to worry about some stupid cable TV franchise while this is going on.”
“This? What is this?”
“The case, Eve. I’m going to have to devote full time to it. Your client has decided he doesn’t want any part of a deal with the DA. He’ll tell you so himself, when he gets the chance.”
“Get out of my chair.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I stood up and walked around her desk to the visitor’s chair. Eve put some papers down, sat in her own chair, and closed her eyes. She tented her fingers in her lap, let out a big sigh—in short, did the whole harried-executive number. Eyes still closed, she said, “No deal, then.”
“He wants to fight it out,” I said “And, to tell you the truth, I’m glad of it.”
She opened her eyes to slits and looked at me disdainfully. “You would,” she said. “Well, my father used to say everything works out for the best. This is just more evidence for him.” She brushed some red hair from her eyes. “The DA wants to fight it out, too, Matt. He won’t be a part of a deal either. Won’t even talk about it. Do you know what that means?”
“He’s very confident of his case.”
“That’s the least of it, Matt. I’ve plea-bargained cases where the defendant was caught red-handed, then signed confessions. In triplicate. No, what this really means is that Jack Wernick is determined to please Mr. Whitten with a revenge show. He’s going to try to destroy Dan, not just convict him.” She said something libelous about the district attorney.
“So we fight,” I said.
“Yes, Matt, we fight. I hope Dan is happy with the results.” She started to laugh, ironic laughter that made her face look suddenly cruel.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“It all depends now, doesn’t it?”
“On what?”
“On how good I am at being a hypocrite.”
The humor escaped me. “How many times do I have to apologize for that? What do we do now?”
“I confer with my client. I don’t know what you think you’re doing. You may be paying me, but you are likely to be a prosecution witness. I may even have to use you as an alternative suspect to my client.”
I shrugged. “Go right ahead. I’ve been accused of murder before.” She gave me a skeptical look. “The next time you come to New York, I’ll show you newspapers. But yes, go ahead and pin it on me if it will help. I’ll tell you how it could have happened. Debbie slips on the carpet in the upstairs hall, hits herself across the throat on the banister, giving her that bruise and knocking the wind out of her. Brenda and Spot arrive. Spot goes to Debbie and for some reason licks that makeup off her face, while Brenda starts to scream. I arrive, rush to Debbie, and kneel by her side. I distract Brenda’s attention somehow and finish Debbie off with one good shot to the larynx.”
Eve smiled at me. “You still have the knack, don’t you? Do go on, Matt. Just as a forensic exercise, of course. What’s your motive?”
“Take your pick. Jealousy. I’ve secretly been in love with Debbie all these years, but she’s been so busy with these two other guys she never notices me, and I can’t take it anymore. Jealousy again, over her riches, this time. It’s a political murder. Off the pigs and like that.”
Eve nodded. “Or how about righteous anger? This woman was a continuing blight on your best friend’s existence. Someone had to find a way to make her stop being one.”
I nodded ruefully. “You’ve pegged my feelings precisely, except for the fact that my idea of stopping her did not include murder.”
“You didn’t kill her, Matt, more’s the pity.” She picked up one of the papers she’d brought in. “At least you didn’t do it the way you’ve suggested.” She handed it to me. “This is the medical examiner’s report. One blow, Matt.”
I held it a second without opening it. “Before I look, how about the rest of it? Could it have been an accident? The banister?”
Eve shook her head. “Read the report. You’ll see.” I started to read. After a few seconds, Eve said, “I don’t know why I’m letting you do this.”
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” I murmured and went on with the report.
It started with general stuff—Caucasian female, age, height, weight, good general health, like that. I skimmed over it until I got to the cause of death. Eve was right. The banister was out. It was too wide and too hard to have caused the bruise on Debbie’s throat. It couldn’t have even been the edge of the railing that did it. Debbie had bee
n struck with something rounded. The medical examiner said the facts suggested very strongly that she had been struck by something that had a hard core surrounded by padding. Something, he hardly needed to add, very much like the edge of a hand. The edge of a karate expert’s hand.
The ME must have known something about karate himself or he’d swotted up on it for this report, because he went on to detail possibilities. The blow had been delivered from directly in front of Debbie or so close as to make no difference. It took her up under the right side of the jaw and ran diagonally downward. The main force of the blow was concentrated on Debbie’s larynx, which was crushed. The ME said this meant that the killer was right-handed or at least struck with the right hand, a backhanded chop that no one could have survived—it not only crushed her larynx but ruptured the carotid artery. She died, the report said, in seconds.
I shuddered. Eve wanted to know what the matter was.
“Says here she died in seconds. Doesn’t say how many, but I’m sure it was long enough. I got a flash of what must have been going through Debbie’s mind during those seconds. The pain. The inability to breathe. The shock that someone would do this to her. It was all in the look on her face when I found her.”
“That’s great, Matt. Write it down and give it to Wernick. He’ll use the same image when he sums up for the jury; he just won’t say it as well.” There was distaste in her voice and something like pity, but it was cold, detached.
“Well, that is the professional attitude, I guess.”
“That’s right,” she said sourly. “It is. I have no time to sympathize with the victim. Professionally, that is. I have to concentrate on my client. How long do you think I would last as a criminal lawyer if I let my imagination run away with me like that?”
“It’s going to take some imagination to figure out what’s really going on here. Assuming, as I do, your client is innocent.”
“That’s what we’re forced to assume,” she conceded.
“Won’t that be jolly for us when we prove he is.”
She nodded, her lips tight together. “You go right ahead and prove it, Matt I’m behind you all the way. Use your imagination and whatever else it takes.
Killed with a Passion Page 8