Conflict of Interest

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  Firing up another joint, Willie sucked the acrid smoke deep into his lungs, then moistened his throat with another gulp of lukewarm soda. It wasn’t right that Ian was dead, that the Rubinskys had used him and then killed him. He got up and started pacing back and forth, his T-shirt already damp with perspiration.

  While they had been smoking dope at the beach that afternoon, Willie started teasing Gary about washing the Chrysler. Gary blurted out that they’d shot Ian and placed his body in the trunk of the car. By that time, Gary was so high that it was hard to make sense out of what he was saying. Willie wasn’t sober either, which didn’t help. Gary mentioned a stretch of land near Magic Mountain several times, and later talked about stopping for coffee at a McDonald’s restaurant off Interstate 5. When Willie asked him where they had came up with the money to buy the Chrysler, Gary had admitted that he and Tom had coerced Ian into stealing the car from his mother’s business.

  Before he’d called Elizabeth, Willie had tried to piece together the various fragments of his conversation with Gary. If the information he’d given Elizabeth had been accurate, the police should have found Ian’s body by now.

  Walking over and staring out the window, Willie decided that if he had to judge who’d accomplished more, Ian would win the prize. Willie wasn’t smart enough to have become a doctor or lawyer, but he knew that there was only one thing wrong with his brain. His brain craved marijuana. And it craved marijuana because he’d taught it to crave marijuana just like he’d trained his cocker spaniel to catch a Frisbee.

  Willie needed marijuana like a man in the desert needed water. Since the age of thirteen, his life had passed in a drugged-out fog. He now consumed a lid of grass every day He took his first puff within an hour after he woke up, his last before bed. Recently he’d developed a hacking cough. Would he quit? Not unless someone handed him a million bucks, and even then, he’d probably start smoking again. Without marijuana, the world was full of sharp edges, grating sounds, tasteless food, and obnoxious people. When he was high, everything was mellow and cool. If someone insulted him, he’d just smile and walk away.

  Willie knew he could have worked at a bank like his father, or maybe one day he could have owned a small restaurant like his grandfather. His parents were decent people. He had nothing to complain about in that respect. A few years back, he’d told himself that one day he’d stop, turn around, and take off in the right direction. He’d already served one term in prison. With a prior for possession-with-intent-to-distribute, by the time he walked out of the joint the next time, he’d be too old to make anything out of his life.

  As ironic as it might seem, Willie had always respected Ian. With all of his limitations, Ian had still managed to graduate from high school. Willie had called it quits after the ninth grade, and for no reason other than to party and hang out with his friends. When he’d heard that Ian was enrolled in the welding program at Franklin Junior College, he’d felt a spark of hope. If Ian could do it, why couldn’t he? By then, however, Ian was in over his head with the Rubinsky brothers.

  Had Tom and Gary really killed Ian? They both had a tendency to shoot their mouths off. Gary was a pathological liar. The guy would lie when there was no reason to lie. Of course, telling someone you’d committed a murder was one humongous lie. He reminded himself that Gary had only told him about what they’d done after smoking the hash. People said all kinds of ridiculous things when they were under the influence of drugs. For all he knew, Ian was alive.

  Just then, Willie heard someone pounding on his door. His adrenalin started pumping, certain it was the police. He leapt out of the chair, and was headed to the bathroom to flush the drugs down the toilet when he recognized Gary Rubinsky’s voice.

  “Open the damn door!”

  “Wait, for God’s sake,” Willie said, his fingers trembling as he frantically unlocked all four dead bolts. Flinging the door open, he stepped back as Gary stormed into the room.

  “Lock it up,” Gary said, hyped to the gills. “Every cop in town is looking for me.”

  “Sure…right away” Willie hastily shoved all the bolts back into place. He cowered in the comer between the door and the bathroom, reaching in the pocket of his jeans for his lighter.

  Gary was dressed in a black leather jacket, a white shirt, and black slacks. On his feet were a pair of scuffed brown leather cowboy boots. He removed the dark sunglasses he was wearing, swinging them back and forth in his hand as he paced. He hadn’t shaved, and his face was partially obscured by a stubby beard. He stopped abruptly, pointing his finger at Willie. “You called Elizabeth, didn’t you?”

  “No way, man,” Willie said, shaking his head. He stared longingly at the joint he’d been smoking in the ashtray across the room. Dealing with Gary without marijuana wasn’t going to be easy He had to convince Gary he was telling the truth, though, or he’d end up in an unmarked grave next to poor Ian.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Gary said, kicking over the green duffel bag. “You must have called her. No one knew anything except you.”

  Willie raised a hand in the air. “I swear, Gary. I don’t even know anyone named Elizabeth.”

  “Ian’s mother,” Gary spat at him. “You know Ian’s mother. You used to hang out with the guy even more than Tom did. You went to his house every day after school to raid their refrigerator. Don’t try to tell me you don’t know Elizabeth.”

  “Hey,” Willie said, scratching his head, “that hash we smoked the last time I saw you wiped me out. My brain is fried anyway. I don’t remember half of what we talked about that day I’m lucky to remember things that happened an hour ago.”

  “Like hell you don’t,” Gary shouted. “The police have been searching for Ian’s grave. I heard on the radio that they’re looking for me. They know I’m driving a blue Chrysler. They even know the license plate. I need the Jeep back.” He held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”

  “A deal’s a deal,” Willie told him, angry now. “What am I supposed to drive? The Chrysler? You carried Ian’s body in that car. The cops will bust me for sure. I might have a warrant out, but I didn’t kill anyone. You’re out of your frigging mind if you think you’re gonna pawn that car off on me.”

  The light in the room faded. Willie blinked several times, uncertain if another storm was moving in or if the stress of the situation was affecting his vision. He then saw Gary’s hand extended in front of him, a small rectangular object inside it. He had to squint before he realized that it was the decoy gun. “Jesus Christ, Gary,” he pleaded, dropping down on his knees. “You don’t want to shoot me. What have I ever done to hurt you? Why would I tell the cops you killed Ian? I don’t want to have anything to do with the cops.”

  Gary was standing with his feet spread apart, his right arm extended and braced with his left. He appeared only seconds from depressing the trigger, yet his eyes were flashing with fear. “I don’t have a choice, Willie,” he told him. “You could use what you know about Ian’s death to cut a deal.”

  “Here’s the keys to the Jeep,” Willie said, removing them from the clip attached to his jeans and tossing them across the floor. “I’ll drive the Chrysler out in the desert somewhere. I promise, Gary. No one will ever see that car again. If you want me to, I’ll dismantle it and bury the parts.”

  Gary’s face was beet red. Sweat was pouring off his forehead. He let his arms fall limp at his side, then wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his jacket. “We shouldn’t have shot him, Willie. It was a mistake. He was a loose cannon though, you know. He wasn’t right in the head. Once they put him on the stand, we wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

  Willie spoke in a low, consoling tone. “I know, Gary. I would have probably done the same thing. Take the Jeep and…”

  “You don’t understand,” Gary said, his face twisted in anguish. “Ian found the gun. We had to take the stuff out of the locker at the skating rink because the manager was getting suspicious. Until then, Ian believed we were innocent. We had him convinced that t
wo other guys robbed the Quick-Mart…that the police only busted us because the clerk remembered our car when we stopped off to pick up some beer.”

  “Is that why you killed him?” Willie asked. “Because he saw the gun?”

  “Yeah,” Gary said. “Tom dropped the gun on the floor like a fool. Ian thought it was a phone and almost shot us. When he realized it was the gun they’d been talking about in the courtroom, he went crazy on us. He knew we’d been lying to him all along.”

  Gary staggered over to the chair and collapsed. He placed the gun on the end table, then buried his head in his hands. Willie started to go for the gun, then stopped. Even overwrought and exhausted, Gary possessed razor-sharp reflexes. Before Willie made it across the room, he’d be a dead man. He wasn’t sure why Gary hadn’t shot him earlier. Was he stalling, struggling with the thought of killing another childhood friend?

  Maybe the gun wasn’t loaded, Willie thought. Something else came to mind. Gary had always been the loudmouth, the bully, the one who made all the decisions. Tom was almost like his shadow, as if he had no identity outside of the fact that he was Gary Rubinsky’s brother. Working the street all these years had taught Willie a lot about human nature. Things were not always as they appeared. Contrary to what people had always thought, Gary may have never been the strong one. Without Tom in the picture, his older brother seemed lost and confused.

  Willie was standing at the crossroads. He could either keep his mouth shut and pray that Gary would take the Jeep and leave, or he could put his neck on the line and see just how deep the weak spot ran.

  “Where did you bury Ian?”

  “What?” Gary barked, yanking his head up.

  “You heard me,” Willie said, pushing himself to his feet. “And where’s Tom? Did you kill him too? Did the cops bust him?”

  Gary unsnapped his leather jacket. “My chest hurts,” he said, breathing heavy. “I’ve been living in the car, trying to lay low and figure out what to do, where to go. I think something is wrong with me. I feel like I’m dying.”

  “Tell me about the night you shot Ian,” Willie said, taking a few steps toward him. “I want to help you. I can’t help you unless I know exactly what happened that night. If I don’t know the truth, I could make things worse for you guys.”

  Gary acted as if he hadn’t heard him, bending over at the waist in pain. “Could I be having a heart attack? Ain’t I too young?”

  “I’ve seen eighteen-year-old kids croak with heart attacks,” Willie told him, rubbing his hands together. “Most of them were snorting coke, but you never know.” Willie wanted the upper hand, and if Gary was convinced he needed immediate medical attention, the greater the chance Willie had of staying alive. “I know a lady down the street who used to be a nurse. I hate to say it, Gary, but you look pretty bad. Maybe something is really wrong with your heart.”

  Gary clutched his chest again. “I’ve had this sharp pain for days.”

  Willie took two more steps. Just a few more feet and he’d be in arm’s reach of the gun.

  Gary saw him and grabbed the gun off the end table. “Get back,” he said. “Come closer and I’ll shoot you.”

  “Don’t you know what’s wrong with you?” Willie said. “You’ve got to talk it out, Gary. Go to any shrink, and they’ll tell you the same thing. You can’t keep something like this to yourself.”

  When Gary spoke this time, Willie had to strain to hear him. Gary stared off into space, his voice a dull monotone. “I shot Ian in the back,” he said, sweeping his tongue over his lower lip. “He was about five feet away After I shot him, Tom and I picked him up and put him in the trunk of the car. We were going to stop somewhere and just dump him out on the road, but Tom said we had to bury him.”

  Willie stood perfectly still, afraid to move. He had to keep him talking. Gary hadn’t showed up at his apartment simply to get the Jeep back. He had come to kill him. “Did you bury him near Magic Mountain?”

  “I still can’t believe all of this has happened.” Gary pulled his collar away from his neck as if it were strangling him. “These are Tom’s clothes I’m wearing. We knew we couldn’t go back to the Economy Inn. We cleared our stuff out of the room before we left.”

  “Did you and Tom get into a fight?” Willie asked. “Why isn’t he with you?”

  “Don’t you have anything to drink in this place?” Gary asked, his tone of voice shifting. “My throat is burning. I must have smoked two packs of cigarettes already and it’s still morning.” He turned toward the left side of the room. “Where’s the refrigerator? Didn’t you used to have a refrigerator in this place?”

  “I sold it,” Willie said, embarrassed that he’d fallen so far down the ladder. He then wondered if he wasn’t the one who needed to see a shrink. How could he feel ashamed? He didn’t cheat people. Only on rare occasions did he steal. He didn’t rob, maim, or kill. Even when he was in prison, he had managed to stay out of trouble. “I can get you a glass of water.”

  “Anything,” the other man said, clasping the gun firmly in his hand.

  Willie went to the bathroom and filled up a plastic glass with tap water. He frantically searched the room, looking for something he could use as a weapon. He might be able to knock Gary unconscious with the wrench he’d used to remove the cap on the radiator. He’d have to get close to him to hand him the water. The wrench was on the floor next to the end table.

  When Willie walked out of the bathroom, his friend was waiting for him.

  “I’m sorry,” Gary said, aiming the gun and firing.

  The gunshot resounded in Gary’s ears. The bullet struck the center of Willie’s forehead, leaving a hole about the size of a quarter. Willie fell backward with a thud, one arm underneath his body and the other at his side. Gary stood and watched as a pool of blood began to form on the floor around Willie’s head, then he leaned down and listened for a heartbeat.

  Once he was sure that Willie was dead, Gary hurriedly stuffed the plastic sack of marijuana inside his jacket, scooped up the keys to the Jeep and struggled with the bolts to the door. Slamming the door behind him, he stepped over an older gray-haired man curled up on the floor in the comer.

  “Was that a gunshot?” the man asked, peering up at him.

  “No,” Gary said, covering his face with his jacket. “Nothing but a car backfiring. Go back to sleep.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Friday, February 16, 2001, 4:30 P.M.

  JOANNE WAS returning to her office after a pretrial hearing on a domestic violence case when Dean Kennedy stopped her. “Do you have any news regarding the homicide?”

  “What homicide?” Joanne said, crushing a manila file folder against her chest. “Did you try to reach me?”

  “A Ventura detective was looking for you,” Kennedy said, glancing at his watch as if he were late for an appointment. “Maybe they called the wrong courtroom.”

  As Kennedy continued down the hallway, Joanne unlocked her office and went inside. She skipped several of the messages on her voice mail and jotted down Detective Lieutenant David Vogel’s number on a yellow pad. A few moments later she reached him at the crime scene.

  “You might want to drive over here,” Vogel advised. “We recovered the Chrysler Cirrus that was stolen from the ABC Towing lot. It was parked across the street from the apartment complex where the shooting occurred. The crime lab is sending a truck to transport it back to the lab. The address is 349 Lewis Street.”

  “Tell me about the victim.” Joanne sighed, looking at all the boxes and files crammed inside her office.

  “Name is Willie Crenshaw,” Vogel told her. “White male, twenty-one, average height and weight. County’s holding a warrant on him for sale and distribution of marijuana. Rap sheet shows he served a stint at Chino a few years back. Cause of death appears to be a gunshot wound to the head.”

  “Is the murder weapon the decoy gun used in the Quick-Mart robbery?”

  “We won’t know anything until ballistics has a chance to ex
amine the bullet.”

  “I’m on my way,” Joanne said, jotting down the address. “Are you in charge of this investigation?”

  “Looks that way,” Vogel said, disconnecting.

  On the drive over, she called Dreiser’s office, but his secretary said he was in court in Los Angeles. The attorney wouldn’t be allowed at the crime scene anyway. She only wanted to alert him of this new development. Even without knowing all the details, she was fearful that they were now dealing with two interconnected homicides. Since Tom was incarcerated, Gary Rubinsky had to be the killer.

  Joanne parked several blocks away because of the number of emergency vehicles. Four black-and-white police cars were parked on Lewis Street, along with the crime-scene van and several units from the coroner’s office. One of the county’s tow trucks was attempting to navigate down the narrow street to load up the Chrysler. Before she got out of the car, Joanne dialed her home number.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” she said when her son answered. “Put Leah on the phone.”

  “She isn’t here,” Mike told her. “Didn’t you tell her she could go to a movie or something after school? She wasn’t on the bus.”

  “I forgot,” his mother said. “Listen, something came up. If your sister doesn’t show up by seven, call me on my cell phone. I’m not sure what time I’ll be home tonight.”

  “Can I walk up to the Cove and have dinner?” Mike said. “What if Leah doesn’t come home? I’ll starve to death.”

  “You’re being a little melodramatic, kid,” Joanne told him. “If you can pass yourself off for sixteen, I think you can manage to fix yourself something to eat.”