"Where's your camera?"
I looked at her blankly, not remembering.
"Retrace your steps from the car," she prompted.
It took me a minute to do so in my mind. I pointed to the stairs; she followed me down to the landing. The camera and doughnut-and-coffee tray were gone. I turned and pounded on Mr. McVittie's door.
Porrocks called, "Police!"
Mr. McVittie opened the door and handed out the camera. His mouth was full of fresh cruller. He glared at me defensively.
"You'll want to talk to him too," I said as he shut the door.
Fortunately, he hadn't monkeyed with the camera. I handed it to Porrocks, knowing she'd want the film as evidence. "You'll be careful with the film?"
"You can count on that."
"Because it's an extremely important roll of film, the pictures in there. Not just as evidence. It's my family, you see."
She looked at me searchingly. "What do you think happened up there?"
"Oh, God, Erma." My chest felt empty. "I don't fucking know. Whoever did this could be any of three or four people I know."
"You have that many enemies?"
We went back upstairs, and Erma sent a junior detective down to interview Mr. McVittie. I got down on my hands and knees to look for Todd.
As soon as he saw my face at floor level, he wriggled out from behind a bookcase and into my arms. I held him tight. "Oh, Toddy."
His food and water dishes needed attention. I filled them, anticipating what was next.
"We want you to come to the station and tell us everything," Ciesla said. He'd been in the bedroom studying things. "We need to know every detail of where you went and what you did yesterday. And more before that."
"Sure, Tom. Where'd they take her, do you know?"
"Probably Beaumont."
I got my bag and keys, and went around to all the cops and told them to be careful of Todd. Some of them were taking notes and making diagrams; others were going through my stuff in the rest of the apartment using latex gloves. They wouldn't start going through my stuff in the bedroom until the photographer and lab people had come and gone.
Ciesla told me the police would probably do all the work they needed that day. I was grateful that he didn't assume I'd be under arrest before the day was out.
I followed Ciesla and Porrocks outside. Gaggles of neighbors had alighted at the property lines. The police were tying their yellow ribbons.
"Is that your car?" Ciesla asked, staring.
"Yeah. It went through the mill last night."
"You've got a lot to tell us."
Chapter 28
Porrocks set a cup of coffee in front of me. "You look like hell."
"No shit."
"You want sugar or cream?"
"No."
The detectives' office smelled of floor wax and copier toner. One of the tubes in the overhead fluorescent fixture buzzed and flickered. My ankles were wrapped around the legs of the same chair I'd sat in a few days ago when I'd tricked Porrocks into leaving the room so I could steal a look at Iris Macklin's postmortem. The same chair Ciesla put me back into for my scolding afterward. I thought it was a hot seat then.
Now the two detectives were ready, Bic Stics poised, to try to make sense out of, most probably, yet another murder in their jurisdiction, yet another unpleasant surprise connected with a brainless reporter who should've gone and gotten a job somewhere else, anywhere else far, far away: the French Foreign Legion, the Alaska pipeline, an asbestos mine.
The cops wanted to know every goddamned thing I did and said, everything that'd happened to me since I'd seen Iris Macklin in the Snapdragon. I told them all over again about that, and stabbing Bucky, and Bucky in the darkroom, and snooping around the Creighter house, and talking to Greg Wycoff, and meeting Mrs. Creighter again, and Lou's attentions.
"You'll find a letter from her in my kitchen junk drawer."
Ciesla unwrapped a hunk of coffee cake he'd baked, and we shared that. I was hardly hungry, but thought I could use the energy.
It took hours and hours to go over everything. Every time I gave a fact, they had about six questions to go with it. Most of them I didn't know the answers to. For instance, I knew Lou's full name, Louise Deronio, but I didn't know exactly where she lived, or what her days off were, or whether she did in fact drive a brand-new black Mustang, or whether she had a history of mental or emotional instability. They asked about Mr. McVittie, who to them was as much of a suspect as anybody, but Jesus, I'd seen him standing there, uncomprehending, looking at that blood on his ceiling. Did Minerva LeBlanc talk about any enemies? They asked about my stability. Had I ever heard voices telling me what to do? Would I allow myself to be fingerprinted?
I wished for a simple solution to the troubles of the world: I wished for the police to arrest Bonnie, her mother, Bucky, and Lou, and put them all in jail forever. That way, no more bad things would ever happen again. How very simple.
I cried, I wrung my hands, I pounded Ciesla's desk, I spilled my coffee.
At different times other cops and even the chief, a hairy-eared dude I never liked, stuck their heads in with questions or handed notes to Ciesla and Porrocks.
The hours went by, and we didn't get word that Minerva had died. "They're operating," said Ciesla after reading one message. "And if she lives, we're not going to be able to talk to her for forty-eight hours at least." He paused. "If ever."
At one point midday he went out to talk to a few reporters in the downstairs lobby.
"All I told them was there was an attempted homicide in your apartment, and we're investigating. Reporters are gonna be bothering you now." He jabbed a finger at me. "As someone who gives a shit about you, I suggest you say very little."
"No problem on that. Did they ask if I was the victim?"
He laughed coldly. "They did, and I said no comment." All I could think was, it must have been a slow news day.
.
The questioning went on and on. In the early afternoon Porrocks sent out for sandwiches and Cokes. She and Ciesla tore hungrily at theirs.
I told them in painstaking detail about Uncle Guff's Last Day (I was starting to capitalize it in my mind). "The film will show I went there. The pictures will corroborate what I'm saying." We all understood, however, that the pictures couldn't prove I hadn't bludgeoned Minerva LeBlanc. Perhaps I'd done it before or after running down to Ecorse for my alibi.
I gave them Uncle Guff and Aunt Rosalie's address and phone number. "He'll tell you too. I don't suppose I'm gonna get the negatives back anytime soon."
Ciesla snorted.
Visions of Aunt Rosalie having a nervous breakdown floated through my mind. Some things just can't be helped. I accepted my fate.
Now this will either surprise you or not, depending on the opinion you've formed about my intellectual competence. I never once thought about getting a lawyer. I mean, not even the faintest concept of "lawyer" crossed my mind the whole day.
Why? I guess I just thought my job was to help the police find the truth. I totally trusted Ciesla and Porrocks. I had not attacked Minerva LeBlanc with the two-by-four. In the end, I was lucky Ciesla and Porrocks were who they were.
Ciesla said, "We've got a lot of work ahead of us." He drummed his fingers on his desk. He and Porrocks looked more puzzled and worried now than when they were first looking around my apartment. They looked tired too.
"Is someone trying to locate Minerva's next of kin?"
Porrocks answered, "The New York police have been notified, and they're handling it. We're not going to release her name to the media until that's done."
Ciesla looked at her and said, "Anything more?"
"No," said Porrocks.
"I can go?"
They nodded together.
I couldn't stand it anymore. "Erma, Tom, do you believe me? Do you believe everything I said?"
Porrocks's mouth was grim. "'Course we do. Lillian! Come on."
Ciesla just watched me, bu
t I thought I saw belief in his eyes.
All he said was, "Don't do anything stupid."
"And of course," Porrocks chipped in lightly, "don't leave town. All right?"
Chapter 29
By the time I started thinking about a lawyer, it was getting late. I decided I'd pick one out of the phone book on Monday.
Dusk was falling when I rounded the corner in my ridiculous hacked-up car and saw the hard lights of a TV crew in front of the house. I backed up and went away, driving over to a nearby elementary school parking lot. I sat there under a tree in the gathering darkness, glad to not be talking, glad to be aware of my own healthy heartbeat, and growing angrier by the minute at any and all of the goddamn people who were cutting down good women and making my life hell.
I began to fantasize about doing some murdering myself. Yes, I'd gone way beyond dictator fantasies to the dark, dark regions of Old Testament vengeance. I wanted a fucking necklace of everybody's teeth: the Creighters, Lou, Bucky. I wanted to see eyeballs pop. I wanted to see blood spurt from severed arteries. I wanted to see dogs feasting on entrails. I thought they were all guilty, and I hated and feared them all.
I prayed for Minerva, hauling out the Hail Mary and the Our Father, as I shamelessly do in my most desperate hours. If she lived, would she ever be the same? How could her brain function as it had, sharp and clear and cool, when bits of it were strewn across my percale pillowcase? Oh, dear God, this is a big one. Thy will be done.
A soft flash of heat lightning drew my eyes to the treetops. It was clouding up and smelled like rain. It'd been holding off for days, but now we were in for a storm. I blotted perspiration from my face with the sleeve of the Wayne State University T-shirt I'd thrown on that morning.
If whoever had attacked Minerva thought they were killing me, they might keep thinking that until the police released her name. How could they know otherwise? If the press had talked to Mr. McVittie, he could have told them the victim wasn't me, but I thought chances were good he'd be too freaked out to open his door to anybody.
I was glad Mrs. McVittie was up north looking after her sister and missing this whole gruesome show. She was a sweet old thing. I imagined Mr. McVittie up on a stepladder scrubbing at the ceiling. I wondered whether he'd eaten all six crullers and drunk both coffees.
I hadn't gotten to know any of my other neighbors yet. Maybe some of them knew who I was when I walked out with Ciesla and Porrocks, maybe not. I believed I had a chance to play dead, sort of, for a short period of time, maybe just overnight. Aunt Rosalie and Uncle Guff wasted little time watching television news; they listened to oldies radio. If they did hear something distressing, I trusted they'd have the sense to call the police and ask.
I formed a hazy plan of paying visits to all four of my tormentors that night. Was I thinking straight or what? I wanted to confront each of them and look into their eyes, in spite of my fear, and make them look into mine. Perhaps I could induce a fatal heart attack or two. At the least I might learn something more.
All right, this was not a rational, police-like plan. But at the moment it was all I had. It was my plan, goddamn it.
I checked my watch; an hour had passed. I went back to my corner and saw TV lights still burning in front of the house. I was about to turn away again when I noticed something disturbing. Stuff, a long mountain of stuff was piled up along the curb in front of the house, and the TV lights were trained on it. What the fuck?
I parked halfway down the block and walked up and couldn't believe it. The yellow police lines were gone. My stuff, all my furniture and books and clothes and food were piled up more or less neatly on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and curb, eviction-style. My turquoise couch. My photo albums. My golf clubs. My stereo. Where was Todd!
I turned around to find a TV camera in my face. Hank Lyman, a local reporter I'd met here and there, stuck his mike up and said, "And this is Lillian Byrd, the tenant at this address where the brutal attack took place, coming—"
I grabbed his arm holding the mike and stuck my hand in front of the camera lens. Hank's channel had the highest ratings in the city.
"Hank, don't. See, nobody knows I'm alive. I mean, I—there's some people I'd just as soon think I was dead—or pretty dead—right now. It's hard to explain. Would you, could you please not report that I wasn't the victim until tomorrow? Please? My safety could be at stake."
"Uh, Lillian," he said, forcing the mike back up to mouth level, "we're live here."
I reeled away from him; he went back to talking into the camera. A few bystanders were eyeing my belongings as if they were gold ingots. I couldn't tell what, if anything, was missing. Ciesla had told me I'd get a list of whatever the cops took as evidence.
I asked one of the bystanders, "Did the police bring this stuff out here?"
He shook his head and pointed. "That guy in there."
Mr. McVittie's flat was dark, but I knew better. I tried my key to the vestibule, but he'd installed a chain latch. I pounded and shouted. A light went on. He came and pulled the door in to the chain stop. His face was red; the little bastard had humped that whole truckload of shit piece by piece down a flight of stairs and out to the curb.
"Goddamn it!" I yelled. "Why did you do this? Where's my rabbit!"
He held up a finger, went away, and came back carrying Todd by the nape. He slipped him out to me.
"Why did you do this! You're not supposed to do this! It was a crime scene! The police might have to come back!"
"They said they was done!" he screamed through the crack.
"Why did you do this!"
"I have a right! You ruined my propitty!"
I stomped back to the curb and dumped out a cardboard carton of stuff and found some newspapers. Todd sat quietly in the grass while I did this. He was an amazingly calm rabbit. Hank Lyman's cameraman came over, tape rolling.
"We're not live now," Hank assured me.
"Goddamn media parasites," I muttered.
Hank giggled snottily. "That's very ironic, Lillian. Miz big-time weekly reporter."
"Fuck you," I snarled.
I put a thick layer of newspapers into the bottom of the box and added Todd, then carried it to my car, set it in the passenger seat, and cranked down the windows an inch.
As I trudged back to my stuff a fat drop of rain hit my forehead. I looked up to see a black roiling sky underlit by the glow of the city. The wind started to whip. Another drop hit my ear. By the time I felt the third drop, Hank and his crew were hurrying to their truck.
The vultures reluctantly moved off, watching me over their shoulders. As the rain spattered down I rooted through the piles for important things: my box of checks, my passport, my mandolin, Todd's water dish. My good loafers. A half-bottle of Dewar's, bag of bunny chow, a couple of carrots. My books would have to wait. I stuffed my pockets and took an armload, including fresh jeans and a couple of blouses, back to the Caprice. Todd was scrabbling anxiously until he heard my voice.
"Hang on, Toddy. We'll be all right." As I walked back to my stuff, the sky opened up in earnest. Sheets of rain, torrents of thrumming rain all but obliterated the glow from the street light nearby.
I stood there alone in the night, straining my eyes toward the dark mass of my worldly goods, hearing more than seeing them getting ruined. A roll of thunder shook the air, then a blast of lightning revealed the sorry sodden lot of property my life had amounted to so far.
I turned and splashed back to the lacerated Caprice, soaked through and disgusted. To hell with the whole goddamned mess.
I felt a cold sense of purpose building in my heart. Thy will be done. Yeah. And I'm the one to do it.
Chapter 30
The Caprice had a good defogger system; I fired it up and let it idle for a few minutes while I more or less scraped the water off myself. In addition to my Wayne State T-shirt, I was wearing blue jeans and my Chuck Taylors. All that cotton must've held a quart of rainwater.
I decided to find a cheap m
otel as a temporary base of operations. Todd could stay with me overnight, but I might have to give him to somebody for a while, maybe my animal-loving friend Billie, who'd offered to look after him if I ever went on vacation.
We took off to the north Woodward corridor. I hung over the steering wheel, brooding. The thunderstorm had swept over, and it felt like a new one was coming. I abandoned the idea of barging in on my enemies. For all I knew, they were all after me again, having seen me babbling on the tube. I peered into the rearview mirror: an array of rainy headlights. I turned east on Eleven Mile into Madison Heights, then cut down John R into Hazel Park. My clothes were drying out, and I felt a little warmer.
Around the racetrack in Hazel Park there are dozens of motels. I pulled into the first one on the right, the Acapulco. I requested a room around back, "where it'll be quiet." Then I asked the clerk for a couple of extra towels, which he grudgingly produced. I intended to make them into a little bed for Todd.
The amount of exotic glamour the Acapulco possessed was in inverse proportion to its name. I needn't get into it. I cut up a carrot top for Todd and gave him some water. He seemed satisfied.
I stripped off my clothes and took a hot shower, then put on the clean things I'd grabbed. That was better. I was glad I had the Dewar's. I set the bottle on the night-stand and went out to the car to rummage in the glove compartment.
Most times when you go looking for a forgotten pack of cigarettes you don't find them, but this time I did. Half a pack of Camel Filters jammed sideways between a Mel Farr Ford ice scraper and my sunglasses case, which I'd misplaced months ago.
They tasted a little rough for being stale, but not bad. I smoked and sipped the whisky, sitting on the floor near Todd, my back against the bed. The whisky felt warm and good.
The thought of Bonnie and Mrs. Creighter going free after murdering Iris, trying to murder me, and maybe murdering Minerva LeBlanc wasn't something I was going to be able to live with. I had to obtain justice or—I squinted and tried to hold back the thought, but there it was—die trying. More immediately, if I didn't put a stop to the Creighters, they were going to put a stop to me.
Holy Hell Page 17