Heartstone

by Phillip Margolin

  “As soon as you locate Heartstone, I want to know. Day or night.”

  McGivern fingered the card and placed it in his wallet. They shook hands and Caproni left.

  Bobby Coolidge was standing on the second-floor balcony of a manor house of a great estate. The manor house was constructed of an odd combination of Ionic columns, stark concrete blocks and unpainted wooden planks. The house was incomplete and furnished rooms, carpeted with Persian rugs and lighted by Tiffany lamps, opened into bare rooms whose western walls did not exist and whose ceiling was the sky.

  Bobby gazed across a rolling lawn, lush, green and smelling of new-mown grass. A low hedge separated the estate from a dark and forboding wood and an arched lattice work provided the only means of entrance into the forest. Sarah stood beneath the roses that twined around the thin, white-painted wood sticks of the arch. She was dressed in a white hoop skirt and looked as if she had just attended an antebellum ball given at the home of a Georgia plantation owner.

  There was an orchid in Sarah’s hair and her blond tresses flew behind her like honey-colored wings as she whirled into the forest, disappearing, then reappearing, in a flash of white petticoats.

  Bobby watched helplessly as she danced deeper into the dark woods. Panic seized him and he rushed through the corridors of the empty house looking for a way out. Suddenly he was at the top of a spiral stairway that twisted downward toward the main ballroom. A figure climbed to meet him, its face shrouded in shadow. Its hand stretching out. Bobby screamed as he looked deep into the eyes of the old man.

  The young guard listened sympathetically to Bobby’s request to see a doctor and promised that he would pay immediate attention to the problem. Later, in the guard room, he noted the request, along with those of several other prisoners, in a report.

  In his cell, Bobby lay on his bunk, his forearm pressed tightly against his closed eyelids. How will I make it through another night, he asked himself. How will I survive the trial?

  He pondered the significance of the dream. The unfinished mansion-his hopes. The dark and gloomy woods-his future. The fleeting vision of Sarah, far off and fading into the silence of the forest. He refused to dwell on this last component of his dream.

  Bobby thought about life in hell. He knew the subject well, for that is where he resided. Death would be preferable to being caged for the rest of his life, especially now that he had glimpsed paradise.

  He thought about getting up and doing some calisthenics. He was losing weight, but his body was becoming flabby. Exercise would keep him in shape. He knew all this, but he had no energy and could see no reason to move.

  PART FIVE. INQUISITION

  1

  “Yes?” Caproni yawned. The ringing of the phone had roused him from a deep sleep. The phosphorescent hands of his alarm clock indicated that it was one in the morning.

  “Mr. Caproni, I’m sorry to wake you, but this is Officer McGivern. I’ve located Heartstone.”

  Caproni sat up in bed and switched on a reading lamp.

  “What have you got?”

  “The Cedar Arms, room 310. It’s a transient hotel over on Third and Wallace.”

  Caproni jotted down the address on a pad on his nightstand.

  “I’ll be there in half an hour,” Caproni said. “Don’t wait in front of the hotel or he might see you.”

  “Don’t worry,” McGivern said, “I’ll be a block away on Prescott, where I can see the front of the hotel.”

  Caproni hung up and dressed. He wanted to find Heartstone, but he wished that McGivern had found him on some other night. The Coolidge brothers had elected to have separate trials and Bobby’s had started last week. It had taken several days to pick a jury and the state was now presenting evidence. While Heider conducted the trial, Caproni was in and out of the courtroom, coordinating witnesses, researching legal points and taking care of emergencies. The pace had been grueling and the work did not stop when court recessed. At five o’clock, he and Heider would go back to the office to prepare for the next day of trial. This evening he had returned home at ten o’clock, completely drained.

  Caproni backed his car out of the garage and pointed it downtown. He yawned and switched on the radio for company. So far there had been no deviations from the script that Heider had so carefully orchestrated. Of course, the witnesses to date had all been policemen who were involved in the investigation and a few civilians, like the parents of the victims, who had provided background for the jury. The crucial part of the case that would tie in Coolidge with the murders would begin tomorrow when Heider called Roger Hessey. Hessey would take the jury to the party at Alice Fay’s house. He would be followed by the people who had attended the party and witnessed the fight.

  After that would come two boys, grown men now, who had talked to Richie Walters and Elaine Murray outside the movie theater on the evening of the crime and who were the last people to see them alive. Mr. Shultz would tell the jury about the drag race on Monroe Boulevard and several people who knew would describe the car that Bobby and Billy were driving on the evening of November 25, 1960.

  Thelma Pullen would tell the jury about the girl she had seen running through her backyard on the evening of the crime, after her dogs had awakened her. Dr. Webber would explain how Esther’s glasses were traced to her. Dr. Trembler would identify the glasses as belonging to Esther. Dr. Hollander would lecture the jurors on hypnosis and amnesia and discuss his treatment of Esther. Esther would testify and Dr. Beauchamp would wrap up the show with a graphic description of cause of death, aided by some of the most gruesome photographs that Caproni had ever seen.

  While Caproni was excited about the way the technical side of the state’s case was going, he was disappointed by Mark Shaeffer’s poor showing. Shaeffer seemed confused and preoccupied. He had raised few of the pretrial motions Caproni and Heider had anticipated and the points that had been raised were poorly researched and argued. Judge Samuels, who had been assigned the case, had lost patience with Shaeffer on several occasions because of the attorney’s lack of preparation.

  Caproni felt the urgency of clearing up the mystery surrounding Toller’s story more than ever now. He had no desire to aid the defense, but he had a strong sense of justice. Shaeffer was doing such a poor job that the truth might never come out at the trial. That made tonight’s interview with Heartstone crucial.

  Caproni parked behind McGivern’s car and walked over to it. McGivern got out and handed Caproni a mug shot of Heartstone. Caproni was always astounded at what life could do to human beings. The face in the picture was long and thin, with sunken cheeks and rotting teeth that showed through the gap made by scarred and cracked lips. Heartstone was not the worst example of the desperate man Caproni had ever seen, but he did evoke strong feelings of revulsion and pity.

  “Let’s go,” Caproni said. “When we get to the hotel I want you to wait outside. I have to talk with him alone.”

  “He could be dangerous,” McGivern said.

  “I realize that, but it can’t be helped.”

  The entrance to the Cedar Arms was a narrow glass-paned door with a “Rooms to Rent” sign taped to one of the panes. There was no lobby. A flight of linoleum-covered stairs led up to a landing lit by a low-wattage bulb. The cracked plaster walls exuded an odor of cooked, canned chile. Caproni tried not to breathe.

  The metal number three on Heartstone’s door was hanging upside down from the bottom nail. Caproni doubted if the door had seen a coat of paint since the building had been completed. He knocked loudly. A radio was playing in a room down the hall. Bedsprings whined and a voice inside Heartstone’s room badly slurred the words “Whaddyawant.” Caproni said “Mr. Heartstone” in a low voice and knocked again. The voice said, “I’m comin’, goddammit” and a shoe worn by a foot out of control thudded on the uncarpeted floor. The lock clicked and the face in the mugshot peered through a crack in the door. Caproni was almost overcome by the man’s breath. He did not need to see Heartstone’s bleary and bloods
hot eyes to know that the man had been drinking heavily. The sight of a man in a suit had a sobering effect on Heartstone. His intelligence was low, but he operated with a certain amount of animal cunning. In his environment suits were worn by people who wanted to hurt you, usually the law. He said nothing and waited for Caproni to identify himself. Caproni handed him a business card through the slit in the door.

  “Mr. Heartstone, I’m Al Caproni. I’m with the district attorney’s office and I need some help from you on a case. Could I come in?”

  Caproni had used the phrase “need some help” on purpose. He imagined it had been quite some time since anyone had asked Willie Heartstone for help or he had been able to give any.

  “About what?” Heartstone asked, his interest piqued.

  “I’d rather not discuss it standing out here where other people can hear us,” Caproni answered in a tone which he hoped was conspiratorial.

  Heartstone tried to weigh his alternatives for a moment, but the task proved too much for him and it must have appeared simpler to let Caproni in, because he moved back and opened the door.

  The room smelled of stale clothing and unwashed bodies. A bed covered by rumpled sheets was pushed under the only window. The window was open and late night street sounds drifted in.

  Someone had placed a laced doily on top of the dresser. Someone else had stained it. There was an overstuffed secondhand armchair under an ancient pole lamp and a sink attached to the wall catercorner from the window. Caproni sat in the armchair while Heartstone turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face. A small mirror was suspended above the sink from a rusted nail embedded in the cracked and flaking plaster. The paint on its cheap frame was chipping and the zinc backing showed through in spots, breaking up the face reflected there. Heartstone stared in the mirror and rubbed his eyes as if in disbelief. He turned away from the mirror and dried his face on a towel that hung over the side of the dresser. Then he sat down opposite Caproni on the edge of the bed. There was a half-filled fifth of cheap Scotch and a five-and-dime glass sitting on the nightstand. Heartstone filled the glass and drank from it. He coughed, wiped his mouth and then, suddenly remembering that Caproni was in the room, offered the bottle to him.

  “No thank you, Mr. Heartstone,” Caproni said.

  “Suitcherself,” Heartstone replied and poured a refill. The drink seemed to make him more sober.

  “I came here to ask you for information about a case I’m working on.”

  Heartstone eyed him suspiciously.

  “I ain’t gone talk wit’ no cops. Lass time they pulled me in when it was that other damn guy. The son of a bitch.”

  “This is about a case that occurred some time ago.”

  Heartstone stood up. He seemed steadier on his feet than he had when he sat down. His face looked meaner.

  “Lissen, if this is about that rap where I was falsely accused of a weapon, I ain’t talkin’ to no cop. That was a frame. That bastard bartender cheated me. Besides,” he added sheepishly, the anger in his voice changing rapidly to shame, “I don’t remember most of what happened.”

  “This has nothing to do with that incident, Mr. Heartstone,” Caproni assured him. He seemed relieved and sat down again. Caproni checked the door and window for a possible exit if the man got violent. He also checked the room for possible weapons. Heartstone reached for the Scotch bottle and grabbed it by the neck.

  “Were you living in Portsmouth in 1960 and ’61?”

  “Sure,” Heartstone said suspiciously, his hand resting on the bottle neck. “I ain’t never lived no other place.”

  “Where were you living at that time?”

  Heartstone passed his other hand in front of his face, trying to clear away the cobwebs that draped the corridors of his faded, alcoholic memory.

  “Shit, I don’t know,” he answered finally.

  “Were you living with someone named Ralph?”

  Heartstone’s face clouded and his voice took on an edge of potential violence.

  “Why d’you want to know about Ralph? He’s long gone. Went to Arizona years ago.”

  “We want to speak to him.”

  “About what? What is this?”

  Caproni decided that it was time to get to the truth.

  “We believe that Ralph murdered a girl in January of 1961.”

  Caproni did not see the bottle, but he heard the animal roar that escaped from Heartstone’s throat at the moment the bottle connected with his temple. For a moment he was blind and falling. Then his head made hard contact with the floor and Heartstone’s boot made harder contact with the back of his skull.

  When he came to, a half hour had passed and the room was empty. Heartstone had cleared out. The door of a small closet was open and the closet was empty. Two dresser drawers were half open. Caproni could see all this from his position on the floor. There was a terrible pain in his head and it got worse when he tried to sit up. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, but lying down again was the only thing that helped.

  He felt like a fool. How had that wino caught him so off guard? He had never expected him to move so fast. He tried to sit up again and made it by rolling to his side and getting his knees under him. He touched his head. It was tender enough to make him grimace, but, miraculously, there was no blood. Scattered pieces of glass lay all over the floor and Caproni tried not to cut himself on them.

  When he was on his feet, he washed his face in the sink. He wondered why McGivern had not come up to find him, then he remembered that he had told him to stay downstairs. What an idiot he had been. He assumed that Heartstone was far away by now. There must be a back entrance. If he had gone out the front, McGivern would have apprehended him or come upstairs to see why he had not come down. He was beginning to conclude that he deserved the kick in the head that Heartstone had administered. He had completely botched things.

  When he was well enough, Caproni eased himself downstairs. McGivern was leaning against a parked car and he rushed over when Caproni staggered out.

  “What happened?”

  “He hit me with a bottle of Scotch and a few other things that he had handy,” Caproni answered.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll radio his description and we can pick him up.”

  “No,” Caproni said quickly. Everything he was doing was behind Heider’s back and potentially damaging to the state’s case. He could not risk word of it getting back to Heider.

  McGivern gave him a puzzled look, then shrugged his shoulders.

  “I think I should take you to the hospital for an x-ray.”

  “I agree. But first I want to go to the county jail. There’s a prisoner there that I have to see.”

  The front entrance of the county jail looked like the portal of a medieval castle. Caproni rang an electric bell that looked out of place buried in the cold stone blocks and a second later the red iron bars of the front gate swung open.

  He walked up a short flight of stairs into a circular reception area. To the right was a counter and, behind the counter, a hallway leading to the office of the jail commander. A guard sat behind the counter. He put down a copy of True Detective magazine, took his heels off his desk and stood up.

  “I’m with the D.A.’s office. It’s urgent that I see one of your prisoners, Edward Toller.”

  The guard looked at Caproni’s identification and handed it back.

  “I’ll get him in a second,” he said and pressed a button on the jail intercom. There was a crackling noise and a voice answered. The guard said, “I need a cell block on an Edward Toller.”

  There was silence for a second, then the voice on the intercom said, “He’s not here. Are you sure you have the name right?”

  The guard looked at Caproni and Caproni nodded.

  “Check the files on him, will you? I have a D.A. here who wants to talk to him.”

  There was more silence.

  “I got it,” the voice said. “He w
as released a week and a half ago.”

  “Ask him why,” Caproni said. Something was going on here that he did not like.

  “Charges were dropped. That’s all I know,” said the voice.

  “Dropped by who?” Caproni asked.

  “The court order just says motion of district attorney.”

  McGivern drove Caproni to the hospital and waited until four o’clock, when he was released. Then he drove him back to his car. Caproni longed for sleep, but he had made a decision that would deny him that pleasure. It wasn’t an easy decision for him to make, because he wanted, more than anything, to be a district attorney, and what he was about to do could cost him his job. It wasn’t a decision that he was certain was right, not only because he feared that what he was doing might help to set two murderers free, but because his solution was a compromise. In his heart, he knew that he should approach Judge Samuels with what he knew, but that would be the end of his career. Instead, he had chosen a middle road.

  There was a night guard on duty at the courthouse. Caproni showed him his identification and took the elevator to the district attorney’s office. It was eerie walking the halls of the deserted office at night and Caproni thought he heard footsteps or breathing at every turn. He found what he was looking for and carried the material to the copying machine. At six o’clock, he returned home, showered, shaved, ate a large breakfast and dressed for work.

  2

  “Your next witness, Mr. Heider,” Judge Samuels said.

  “The state will call Roger Hessey, Your Honor.”

  Mark Shaeffer watched the bailiff summon Hessey from the corridor. Hessey walked through the ornate courtroom doors dressed more like a swinging single than a witness in a murder case. He was nervous and his facial expressions moved back and forth between a look of deathlike solemnity and an inappropriate, overdone, smile as Philip Heider led him through his part in the events of November 25, 1960.