This is getting me nowhere, so I interrupt. “Were you Mr. Timmerman’s personal physician?”
“No.”
“His lawyer?”
“Certainly not. But—”
“Are you a priest? A rabbi?”
“Mr. Carpenter, Walter Timmerman was a close, personal friend of mine, and I will honor his memory. You need to understand that you cannot come in here and bully me.”
“Noted,” I say, as I prepare to bully him. “Now, here’s what you need to understand. I have a few questions that I need answers for. It will be relatively painless for you. The alternative is that I serve you with a subpoena and force you to sit through a full-blown deposition, which will feel like a verbal rectal exam, conducted with a rusty spatula.”
He doesn’t say anything for a few moments, no doubt considering his options and visualizing the spatula. I decide to continue.
“Dr. Jacoby, why did Walter Timmerman send you his own DNA to be tested?”
He reacts to this with apparent shock. “How did you know about that?”
“It came up as part of the investigation.”
He sags slightly, which I take as a sign that he is going to drop his resistance to answering my questions. “I’m not sure why he sent me that. I asked him, but he never responded. I found it to be something of an affront, both professional and personally.”
“An affront in what way?”
“Well, it seemed to be a test of sorts, yet he couldn’t think we would do anything but pass it. Frankly, it was slightly bizarre.”
“Could he have just been wanting to get his own DNA on file?”
Jacoby shakes his head. “No, he had done that long ago, and he wouldn’t have forgotten that. This was a simple match of DNA in pristine condition. There is not a laboratory in the country that would have missed it.”
I have no more idea what to make of this than Jacoby. I could certainly be wasting my time on it as well; it likely has nothing whatsoever to do with Timmerman’s murder. “And the DNA was absolutely identical?” I ask.
“A perfect match.”
“You’re positive?”
He looks at me with clear disdain. “Mr. Carpenter, do you know anything about DNA?”
“I wouldn’t know it if it came in here and bit me on the ass.”
He frowns. “Well, my associates and I know plenty about it. But we were novices compared with Walter Timmerman. Think of us as watchmakers, with DNA as the watch. We understand watches, we can fix them, we know what makes them tick. But Walter Timmerman knew why they tick, he understood them at their core. He knew that the DNA he sent us was his, he knew it was uncontaminated, and he knew that we would find it as such. Why he sent it is a mystery we will probably never understand.”
“But he must have had a reason.”
“On that we can agree,” he says. “Walter Timmerman had a reason for everything he did.”
On the way back to the hospital, I try to make sense of what Jacoby told me. He was certainly telling the truth; the e-mail confirms that. But he was not able to shed any light on the mystery, and therefore I did not accomplish much of anything.
One of the most frustrating things about working on a case like this is that we are obligated to follow every investigative road, not knowing where it will lead. Very often we don’t find out that it has no relevance to our case until we get to the end of that road. Worse yet, sometimes the road has no end, and we just keep moving forward blindly and unproductively, wasting valuable time and resources.
There is no evidence, not a shred, that the DNA dustup between Walter Timmerman and Robert Jacoby had anything to do with his murder, or that of his wife. All it provides me with is a hunch, and a road to go down.
Which is better than nothing, but not by much.
LAURIE IS COMING HOME.
With special equipment, and her team of therapists, and me, and two squad cars that Pete Stanton is sending along for protection. It will be a glorious procession down Park Avenue in Paterson.
Laurie said that Dr. Norville is delighted with her progress, though it is hard for me to picture him delighted. She swears that he even smiled once. A little.
He told her that she has at least two months of therapy ahead of her, but that over time she should regain full movement and normal speech. She starts to cry as she tells me this; it has obviously been an incredibly emotional and trying experience for her.
I turn away and pretend to help her pack so she won’t see me tearing up as well. Crying is for girls; besides, I’ve been there, done that while Laurie was in a coma.
Laurie understands that she will not be able to work for at least the two months, and she has so notified the city manager in Findlay. Her second in command will fill in, no doubt adequately, since Findlay is not exactly Dodge City. Except for the aberrational murders that I went up there to investigate a couple of years ago, the closest Findlay has come to violence in the streets was when word got out that Brett Favre was going to the Jets.
“Andy, are you okay with my staying at your house through all this?” she asks.
I think for a moment, trying to search my memory to see if I’ve ever heard a stupider question. None comes to mind.
“Let’s try it for an hour or two and see if it works out,” I say.
“I’m serious,” she says. “It will cause some turmoil.” There are some sounds that she is still having trouble saying, and the oy sound is one of them. It sounds like turmill. I can see the frustration in her face as she hears herself.
“There is nothing that would give me more pleasure than you spending two months at our house.”
I’m sure she noticed that I said “our house,” but she doesn’t correct me. In my pathetic little world, that qualifies as a damn good sign.
Laurie is very shaky on her feet, so she doesn’t resist the hospital’s policy that patients must use a wheelchair on departure. They will let me do the pushing, and once we make final arrangements for the therapist’s equipment to arrive, we’re off.
I feel a hell of a lot better leaving than I did the night I arrived.
When we get home, Laurie wants to walk into the house under her own power, though she holds on to my arm as she does. I help her up the steps and into bed, and I can see that the effort has exhausted her.
“Andy, it’s so good to be here. I feel better already.”
“That’s good, because you’re going to have to pull your own weight. Light housework, cooking, some gardening, sexual favors, that kind of thing.”
Laurie doesn’t answer, mainly because she is already sound asleep. I’ll have to write that line down to use it later.
I call Willie and ask him to bring Tara and Waggy over. He’s busy at the foundation, and promises to do so when they close for the evening. I’m slightly nervous about this, since we have determined that possession of Waggy has proven somewhat unhealthy in the past. But for the time being I won’t take the dogs for public walks; I’ll just play with them in the backyard, which is surrounded by a fence and can’t be seen from off the property.
Laurie wakes up ravenously hungry and anxious to eat the farthest thing possible from hospital food. Since my understanding of cooking ranks with my understanding of DNA, I offer her a bunch of take-out options. She chooses Taco Bell, and I can’t say I’m disappointed with the choice.
I go to the Taco Bell on Route 4 in nearby Elmwood Park and pretty much order everything on the menu. When I get back, Tara and the maniacal Waggy greet me at the door. Willie is sitting on the edge of Laurie’s bed, and they are laughing and enjoying each other’s company.
Things are getting back to normal, and normal is damn good.
Willie takes one look at the bags of food, smacks his hands together, and announces that he is starved. That, coupled with Laurie’s previously announced hunger, is going to leave me sucking on the sauce packets for nourishment.
I bring out a large tray and some plates, and we eat right there in the bedroom. I wi
nd up with a steak quesadilla and half of a chalupa, and consider myself lucky. Laurie and Willie eat enough for twelve normal people.
As I’m cleaning up, the phone rings, and Laurie answers it. Her “hello” is soon followed with, “Great! I’m doing great! It’s so nice to hear from you.”
What follows is a three- or four-minute conversation, mostly about Laurie’s condition, job status, and immediate plans. There are long pauses in which she listens to apparently lengthy replies. It all ultimately ends with, “He’s right here, Marcus. I’ll put him on.”
As she hands me the phone, I say, “You’ve been having that conversation with Marcus? My Marcus?” The longest conversation he and I have ever had consisted of six grunts and a nod. The way this one sounded, Laurie could have been talking to Henry Kissinger.
I take the phone and Marcus says, “Got him.”
“Who? Childs?”
“Yuh. Bergen Street.”
“Where on Bergen Street?”
“Elevator.”
I was once present when Marcus questioned someone in a dilapidated old warehouse at the end of Bergen Street near the Passaic River, hanging him out over a sixth-floor elevator shaft to encourage his truthful responses. It was vintage Marcus, and I think that he’s now telling me he has Childs at the same place.
“You got questions?” he asks.
“For him? Absolutely. Should I come down there?”
“Now,” he says, and hangs up.
I get up and tell Laurie and Willie about the conversation. Willie insists on going with me, an idea that Laurie encourages. That area can be dangerous at night, and in Childs we are talking about a hired killer, albeit one whom Marcus apparently has under control.
I’d certainly like to bring Willie along, since I’m generally afraid of being alone in my bedroom if it gets too dark. He also shares Laurie’s ability to understand Marcus’s unique way of speaking. I’m reluctant to leave Laurie alone for an extended time, but she points out that her assailant is obviously not available at the moment to come after her.
Willie and I drive down to the designated meeting place, which if anything is more run-down than it was last time. Marcus signals to us from a window on the sixth floor, and we start trudging up the steps. When we’re on the third-floor landing, a rat runs across the floor in front of us, causing me to jump so high I almost fall back down the steps.
“I’ve got to make some changes in my life,” I say, once I’ve recovered.
By the time we get to the sixth floor, I am gasping for air, or dust, or anything else I can take in. Willie, on the other hand, looks like he could go another fifty or sixty stories.
We enter a large room, lit only by moonlight through the window and a large flashlight that Marcus has rested on a table. He is sitting calmly in a chair, while a man I have never seen before sits on the floor, tied to a radiator. Even in the sitting position, it is obvious he is very large, maybe four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Marcus. He looks none the worse for wear; Marcus apparently got him into this position without resorting to violence.
“What you want to know?” he asks.
“Well, to start, whether he shot Laurie.”
Before Marcus answers, an obviously unrepentant Childs laughs. “Of course I shot her, I’m just sorry I didn’t kill the bitch.”
Maybe I’ve felt more anger and disgust in my life, but I can’t remember when. I try to control myself and talk calmly to Marcus. “I want to know who paid him, and why.”
Marcus looks at me, expressionless. “S’all?”
“Saul?” I ask. “Who is Saul?” As always, talking to Marcus is leaving me frustrated, so I turn to Willie. “Who the hell is Saul?”
“Marcus is asking if that’s all you want to know,” he says.
“Oh, sorry.” I turn back to Marcus. “Anything you can find out is fine, but that’s basically it.”
Marcus nods. “Take his gun.” He points to a gun on top of the table, which I didn’t see before.
I try to talk softly, so Childs can’t hear me. “Marcus, I’m not going to shoot anyone, not even him.”
“Take the gun,” Marcus repeats, and then takes his own gun out of his pocket. “And this.”
“Marcus, can you tell me what’s going on?”
Willie decides to intervene at this point, and walks over to Marcus. They talk for about a minute or so, with Willie nodding the whole time.
Willie turns to me and talks loud enough for Childs to hear. “Marcus got the drop on this asshole and brought him here. The guy thinks he can take Marcus, so Marcus is going to give him a chance. It will also give Marcus a chance to ask some questions.”
Childs laughs when he hears this; his lack of fear of Marcus is giving me the creeps.
I whisper to Willie: “Can’t we stay here, with you holding the guns, just in case?”
“I suggested that, but Marcus said no.”
“What’s he going to do to him?” I whisper.
“The guy shot Laurie,” Willie says. “Laurie is just about Marcus’s favorite person in the world. I don’t think you’d want to sell him life insurance, you know?”
“Willie, are we talking about murder?”
“No, you’re talking about murder. Me and Marcus… we’re talking about self-defense. You’re a lawyer; you don’t know the difference?”
I’ve got a bit of a dilemma here. If I just leave and don’t try to exercise any influence over the situation, one of these guys might wind up dead. Also, Childs looks every bit as tough as Pete described him, so I cannot be sure if Marcus’s confidence, in addition to Willie’s, is misplaced.
Even if Marcus prevails, it represents vigilante justice of a kind that I ordinarily do not condone. There is no question but that the proper thing is to turn Childs over to the police. Still, if anyone deserves swift and deadly justice it’s Childs, a piece of garbage who admitted to shooting Laurie and vowed to do it again.
The other factor to consider is that there is a far greater chance that Marcus can get Childs to talk than the police could.
I walk over to Marcus. “Marcus, are you sure about this?” “Yuh.”
“This guy is very dangerous. Will you be really careful?” “Yuh.”
“And you’ll try your best to avoid killing him?”
“Yuh.”
I wish I could let that be the final word.
AS SOON AS WILLIE AND I leave the room, I grab his arm.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
“Sshhh,” I say softly, putting my fingers to my mouth to emphasize that I want him to be quiet. I look around, trying to find a vantage point from which I can watch what happens in the room.
Fortunately, there are literally holes in the wall, and I find one that lets me see Marcus and Childs clearly, yet it is small enough that they’re unlikely to know I’m there. “I can’t just leave him like this,” I whisper to Willie. “If something went wrong, I’d never forgive myself.”
“Marcus will be really pissed,” he says.
“Only if you tell him.”
“What are you going to do if Marcus is losing? Shoot Childs?”
I shake my head. “I could never do that. It’s still a human life we’re talking about. You can shoot him.”
Willie just shakes his head in disapproval, but he quickly finds another place from which he can see as well. I also notice that he has one of the guns out and ready.
We watch as Marcus goes over to Childs and starts to untie him.
As he does so, Childs laughs and says, “You’re a bigger asshole than I thought.”
Marcus doesn’t answer; he just continues freeing Childs from the bonds. At the moment he is free, Childs lashes out and punches Marcus in the face. The sound of fist hitting face is a sickening thud, and Marcus staggers back a few feet.
Childs is up and at him like a cat, showing frightening quickness for a man his size. He lands two more punches, one to the side of Marcus’s head and another that gla
nces off his shoulder. Marcus backs up a few more steps.
I can see Willie’s grip tighten on the gun to the point that I’m afraid he’s going to shoot himself. But we keep our positions; it seems too soon to intervene.
Suddenly we see a slight movement, and Childs screams in pain. The punch from Marcus was so quick and short that it was hard to detect, but it leaves Childs holding his stomach and gasping in pain on the floor.
Marcus moves toward him and Childs somehow summons the strength to punch at him again. This time it’s done with far less force, probably because it’s difficult to punch and wretch at the same time.
Marcus leans down and grabs Childs, lifting him off the floor and over his head as if he were a rag doll. He throws him halfway across the room, and Childs lands in a heap. It is the most astonishing thing I have ever seen in my life.
Marcus walks across to Childs, who is unsuccessfully trying to get up. Marcus pulls his fist back and lifts him halfway up by his collar, preparing to hit the defenseless man in the face. There is no doubt in my mind that it will kill him, and even though I have a great desire to look away, I can’t.
I’m cringing, waiting for the blow to be delivered, when Marcus thinks better of it. He relaxes his hand and lets Childs go, and watches as he crumples to the floor.
Willie looks at me, and I just nod. We turn and go down the stairs. I think Marcus can handle the rest of this on his own, and I sure as hell don’t want him knowing we stayed to see what happened.
Laurie is sleeping when I get home. I’m certainly not going to wake her, so I don’t get to tell her about the events of the lovely evening spent with Marcus and Childs. It’s probably just as well: She needs a lot of rest, and dealing with this lunacy can’t help.
She’s still sleeping when I get up in the morning, and only wakes up after I shower and have coffee. She wants to be updated on the evening’s events, and I take her through it. She’s anxious to hear from Marcus to learn if he got Childs to talk, as am I, but thinks I did the right thing by leaving when I did.
Two off-duty policemen show up, whom I am hiring to guard the house while Laurie is in it. They will alternate with two other cops, so that the house will always be covered, at least until we decide it’s no longer necessary. Even though Marcus has been able to deal with Childs, the fact is that he was hired to shoot her, and whoever did the hiring can find someone else to attempt the job.
New Tricks Page 9