Heartstone

by Phillip Margolin

  She did not say anything more and Shindler continued until he reached the spot where the glasses had been found.

  “Does this look familiar, Esther?”

  She looked out of the car window. Shindler got out and walked over to the exact spot. Esther did not follow.

  “Come on. Take a look.”

  “I told you before, I wasn’t here. I don’t know why you brought me here.”

  “Just to see the place, Esther. I thought that you might be curious to see where we found your glasses.”

  She turned away and bit her lip. Shindler got back in the car and headed up the road to the meadow.

  “I’m going to make one more stop. Then we’ll go down to the station.”

  “Don’t take me there. Please,” she begged in a voice tinged with panic.

  “I want to check something, Esther. You can wait in the car.”

  He parked the car at the end of the dirt road and looked around. The meadow had not changed. It had been peaceful even on the day of the murder. The violence had been added and subtracted. Shindler got out of the car and walked to the spot where the car had been. There was no trace of it. He waited a while for Esther to see whatever phantoms remained. Then he got back in his car. Esther was quiet on the trip to the station.

  Shindler parked in the police garage. The garage was in the basement of the police station. They took the elevator up to the third floor and he brought her to the same room where he had questioned Billy Coolidge. This morning, before he picked her up, he had put the photograph in the small drawer in the wooden desk.

  The matron tried to get Esther to relax. She only made Esther more nervous with her attentions. Shindler could smell the fear in Esther. He had owned a pet rabbit when he was a boy. The rabbit had never adjusted to the cage. It would run round and round, darting into the mesh, trying to claw through. Esther’s eyes reminded him of the rabbit’s. They never looked at him. They darted everywhere, searching for an exit.

  “You didn’t tell me the whole truth the last time we talked, Esther.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked cautiously. She did not trust this soft-spoken thin man. There was too much of the deceiver below his surface.

  “You didn’t tell me about what happened at Alice Fay’s house.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” she answered quickly.

  “No. But Billy and Bobby did. Tell me what they did.”

  Esther stared away from Shindler at the floor.

  “They fought,” she said in a low voice.

  “I didn’t hear you,” Shindler said.

  “They fought,” she said louder. “I told them to leave, honest. I didn’t want them fighting. I just wanted to see the house.”

  “You didn’t tell me how they fought.”

  Esther looked confused.

  “What did Billy use, Esther?”

  Esther’s eyes widened.

  “What did Billy use?” Shindler repeated.

  “A…a knife,” she said so quietly that her voice was like the tick of a clock in another room.

  “That’s right. And you held that back, didn’t you?”

  “No. Honest. I just…I didn’t know it would be important.”

  “Not important, Esther? Did you know that Richie Walters was stabbed twenty times. Twenty different times. And you didn’t think it was important that Billy Coolidge had a knife?”

  “Well, we didn’t go up there.”

  “Up where?”

  “To the park.”

  “How do you know? You say you can’t remember what you did.”

  “I just know.”

  “You just know,” Shindler mimicked. Esther bit her lip.

  “My mamma knows,” she said suddenly, and with relief, as if she had grasped a lifeline.

  “Wrong, Esther. All your mother can say is that you came home late and drunk. Richie was killed between twelve and two.”

  Esther looked down again. Shindler let her sit in silence for a moment. His eyes drifted toward the desk drawer. He could see the photograph through the wood and manila. It burned there, burning him with its fire. Any pity he might have had for Esther Freemont turned to ash. The picture dried him out and made him like cold stone.

  “Tell me about the park, Esther.”

  “I wasn’t in the park.”

  “How do you know if you can’t remember?”

  “That’s what I mean. I can’t remember. Please, can’t I go home?”

  “Richie and Elaine can’t go home, Esther. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Don’t talk like that, please, Mr. Shindler. It scares me.”

  “You don’t like to think about Richie and Elaine, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Billy hated them, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You aren’t telling me the truth, Esther. Billy hates rich people. He envies them. I know. I’ve talked to enough people to know what goes on in Billy Coolidge’s head. Now answer me. Billy hated rich people, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Shindler said, leaning back. “Now we are getting somewhere. Who did Billy hate, Esther?”

  She wished he would stop saying her name. He made it sound dirty. Like it was scum in a gutter pool. She could feel tears coming.

  “Who?” Shindler asked in a voice that cut to her nerve.

  “Please, I don’t know. Just the rich kids. He didn’t like Tommy Cooper. I don’t know. He didn’t talk to me that much.”

  “You were with him that night.”

  “No. I was with Roger…Hessey. My boyfriend. But we had a fight at the party and he left me. That’s why I was with Billy.”

  “And you can’t remember the park?”

  “I can’t. The last thing I remember is hazy. It’s downtown. I think we were cruising.”

  “Esther, I’m going to let you go, but I want to show you something first. Then I’ll take you home.”

  She did not know how to take it. Whether to believe him. Going home. Out of this room. She relaxed like a balloon when the air is let out, deflating, shoulders sagging.

  Shindler opened the desk drawer and drew out the manila envelope. He pulled the large color photograph out of the envelope face down, so Esther could not see. Esther leaned forward out of curiosity. When her eyes were focused on the back of the print, he turned the picture face up and leaned back. He could see the scene registering. Esther made a choking sound. Then she began to scream. He had not expected that. In retrospect, he realized that he should have.

  She was standing and still screaming. Her hands before her face, half-curled, forming tiny claws. He watched her with detached interest. A lab specimen.

  She could not look away from the picture and she could not stop screaming. The matron gave him a peculiar look when she helped Esther out of the room. People were looking down the corridor.

  Shindler was suddenly aware that he had caused the screams. It began to dawn on him that his actions had been responsible for the girl’s hysterics. His composure began to crumble. People were looking in at him. Still he did not move. He tried to think about the situation in terms of logic. He had done nothing wrong. This girl and those two boys were responsible. They had butchered two beautiful children. If Esther had to suffer so that the truth could be revealed, it was sad but necessary.

  Someone asked if he was okay. He did not acknowledge him. There was a pitcher and water glass on the desk. He took a slow drink of water and contemplated the picture. He felt the same anger he had felt when he saw the boy for the first time.

  The picture was of the body full length on the rubber sheet just before it had been taken from the scene. The angle showed the full facial damage. It had been cruel to show it to Esther, but Shindler was willing to do anything to find the people who had killed Richie Walters.

  “I am taking you off this case, Roy. That is my decision,” Captain Webster said. Shindler sat rigid, his mouth clamped shut and his eyes
staring directly into the captain’s. He did not trust himself to speak.

  “I don’t know what got into you with that girl. You’re lucky if she doesn’t bring a suit against you.”

  “Captain, I…I am certain that Esther Freemont is the key to the Murray-Walters murders.”

  “I know what you think. I had a long talk with Harvey Marcus before I called you in here. Now, damn it, Roy, I think you are one of the best detectives I have. But this is not the Gestapo. I can’t have you torturing people to break cases. In no time we would be as bad as the people we are trying to catch.

  “Besides, I think that you are way off on this one. Harvey thinks that this obsession that you have about the Coolidge brothers is preventing you from investigating this case effectively. He also thinks that your preoccupation with the case is affecting your other work. So I am taking you off of it.”

  “Because I showed her the picture?”

  “Haven’t you heard what I have been saying? The picture would have been enough. She’s a sixteen-year-old-girl, Roy. But that isn’t why you are off. I have reviewed the file and I have talked with several other people in homicide. I do not think that it is in the best interest of the department to have you continue on this case.”

  Shindler took a deep breath.

  “Who is getting the case?”

  “I’m giving the file to Doug Cutler, but I am telling him to put it on inactive status.”

  “Inactive…? Captain, that’s like closing the case.”

  “I told you that I had reviewed the file. I don’t think that a continuing investigation is going to solve this case.”

  Roy Shindler went home to bed. He did not sleep. He lit a cigarette and smoked in bed. He was so tired. He was so sick. The sickness was inside of him.

  After a few hours, Roy sat up and called Mr. Walters at his office. He used to go to the Walters’ home when something happened to tell them firsthand, but he had stopped because of Mrs. Walters. She always seemed to pull into herself when he came.

  Mr. Walters was different. He had hardened since November. He kept in close contact with Roy, anxious to learn every detail of the investigation. Mr. Walters was in and said he would be glad to see Roy. Roy dressed and drove downtown.

  “I wanted to tell you in person. They put the case on inactive status.”

  “You mean they closed the file?” Norman Walters asked incredulously.

  “It amounts to the same thing. The file is still open, but no one is actively working on it.”

  “But you told me that you were on to something. That you thought that you knew who…who killed Richie.”

  “I think I do, but the department disagrees. I have been taken off of the case.”

  Mr. Walters stared at Shindler.

  “They took you off the case. Who did that? I’m not without influence, Roy. Give me the names and I’ll have you back on it by tomorrow.”

  Roy shook his head.

  “That’s not the way to do it. Even if you could get me reassigned, there would be so much resentment that I wouldn’t be able to do my job.”

  “But I could get the Commissioner to order you back on it.”

  “I’m not so sure you could. And I know what kind of bad feelings would result.”

  “Then it’s all over,” Walters said dejectedly. “My boy is dead and no one will ever pay for it.”

  “No, it’s not all over, Mr. Walters. It will never be over as far as I am concerned. I’ll let this die down for a while. I still have access to the file and I can keep track of the investigation. What I do in my spare time is my own business. No, it’s not over, Mr. Walters.”

  PART THREE. BLACK ARTS

  1

  On the day after Thanksgiving, 1965, Norman Walters did what he had done on every day after Thanks giving since November, 1961. After breakfast, he went into his study and wrote a check to the classified advertisement section of the Portsmouth Herald. Then he enclosed the check and a sheet of his business stationery in an envelope. Typed on the sheet was an advertisement that would run for a month. It read:

  $10,000 reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for the murders, on November 25, 1960, of Richie Allen Walters and Elaine Melissa Murray. Please contact: Norman Walters, Suite 409, Seacreast Building, Portsmouth. Phone: 237-1329.

  A floorboard creaked in the bedroom above. Norman glanced nervously toward the study door and sealed the envelope. Carla would be down in a moment and he did not want her to see the letter. She had taken Richie’s death very badly and there had been a slow recovery. Even now he would come upon her weeping quietly in a corner of the house, saying nothing when asked for the cause. For the most part she was his wife again, but he was careful to keep any reference to their dead son from her.

  The sun was shining when he left the house. It had snowed the day before and the morning coat crackled underfoot. Thinking of Richie made him think of Roy Shindler. For a while after Richie’s death he had seen the detective often. At first Norman believed that they shared a common grief, but he soon discovered that it was hate that brought them together. As the passage of time dulled the sharpness of Norman’s desire for revenge, a rift had developed between himself and the detective. He was sure that no matter how hard he worked to disguise it, the detective could sense his growing aversion to the reminders of the loss he had suffered. At times, he caught himself wondering whether his son’s death meant more to Shindler than to himself. Self-deprecating thoughts which were, of course, not true. But they sowed the seeds of guilt.

  The posting of the advertisement each year had become a ritual he engaged in to expiate his imagined sins. He felt compelled to do it so that he could look upon Shindler’s sad and accusing countenance. In his heart, he prayed that there would be no new clues. What great truth would be served if the killer was discovered after all these years? It could only lead to the baring of old wounds and new sorrow for himself and his wife. There had been times during the past week when he had considered not sending in the ad. Then he would conjure an image of Shindler and his courage would leave him.

  The lid of the mailbox snapped back, sending the sound of metal ringing through the still cold air. Nor man’s shoulders straightened as if a great weight had been removed.

  The baby was crying again. It was harder to get up every time. Sometimes she thought about staying in bed until the cries became whimpers and finally stopped. Then she would feel guilt. It was an unnatural thing to want your baby to die. She loved her baby. It was just that she was so tired.

  If John was here, she thought. But John had left Esther Pegalosi all alone. John had left because of the baby. No, it wasn’t the baby. The others had left her and there had been no baby. She was to blame. She was the one.

  The baby howled. Esther opened her eyes and looked at the clock. It was four in the morning. Still dark outside. She felt empty. What was she? A machine that ran on food. Get up, feed, go to the bathroom, sleep. No purpose. Less than a machine. At least a machine had a purpose. It capped bottles or pressed shapes out of steel.

  Esther pushed herself to her feet. She could see herself in the mirror. She had lost most of the weight from her pregnancy and she was getting her figure back. She took off her nightgown and stood naked. Her legs were long and her hips wide. Her stomach was regaining its muscle tone. And then there were her breasts. John had loved her breasts. So had the others. He would kiss them and bite them. They were large and firm, nicely shaped even after the pregnancy. She had a good body. A beautiful body. They had all said so. But somehow it had never been enough.

  How long had she known John? A year and a half? Two seemed more like it. She had been working as a waitress at Foley’s Truck Stop near the Interstate. She was pretty, so all the customers used to joke with her and she got her share of propositions, many of which she accepted. But John had been different. He was quieter, more serious. He wasn’t lewd like most of them. No pats on the rear or behind-th
e-back comments that were supposed to be overheard.

  They had gone to the movies a few times and he had been a real gentleman. He had even brought her flowers once. The dating was sporadic, because he was on the road so much, but she started looking forward to seeing him. She didn’t feel about him the way that the women in the confession magazines and romance novels felt, but she felt comfortable with him. He was gentle and treated her with respect and she appreciated that in him. She wanted to be in love, like in the books, but she settled for having someone nearby who, she thought, cared.

  The baby’s fists were tight and his color bright red. His mouth was so wide. Screaming. He was always screaming. Why couldn’t he be a quiet baby? He never rested. He never let her rest. She picked him up and rocked him. Her motions were automatic. There was no love in them, only desperation.

  Very little had changed for Esther before she married John. After high school, she had moved out and gotten an apartment and a job. There had been plenty of men, but they hadn’t stayed long. They would say that they loved her and, with each new promise of happiness, she would give herself. But the affairs never lasted long.

  Then John asked her to marry him. The proposal frightened her. She had prayed so hard for happiness and now that it was really there it terrified her. That night, she cried herself to sleep. He was a good man, she told herself. Then why does he want me? None of the others saw anything in me worth wanting.

  She was sick with worry and did not go to work the next day. She was afraid that he would take the proposal back, as if it was a door-to-door sales offer. She could not have stood that. For once things were working out. This might be her only chance. Maybe she would be happy after all.

  A judge at the county courthouse married them. They pooled their salaries and rented a small apartment. Then John lost his job. He tried real hard at first, but the job market was tight. After a while, he just gave up. He would sit in front of the TV all day. He started to drink more than usual and the frequency of their sex decreased. He had always been an ardent lover. It thrilled her when he told her how good she was, when he caressed her and kissed her. But after he lost his job he was always tired and on the occasions when they did have sex it was always fast, with little or no foreplay.