“A friend of yours?” I asked.
“Yes. My friend Margery Whitney.” Miss Ogilvy made a face like she’d bitten into a lemon. Her swollen gums blushed purple with disgust. “Well, she’s Margery March now. That’s her husband’s name. Chester March.”
“Margery March?”
“Yes, sir.”
I exhaled a plume of smoke out of my nostrils and then tried to breathe it back in. “She should have turned down his proposal just to avoid that name.”
Hortense clenched her fists. “If you ask me, she should have turned down his proposal for a lot of reasons.”
“Too bad nobody asked you,” I said.
“What is that supposed to mean, Detective?”
“I’m not sure yet. Why don’t you tell me why you think Margery March is missing.”
“We’re quite close, and we talk every day or so. We had a standing lunch date every Wednesday that we’d kept almost religiously until she disappeared. I haven’t seen or heard from her in nearly three weeks.”
“Anything happen between you that might explain why she is making herself scarce?” I really couldn’t blame Margery for taking a break from Hortense. I was ready for one myself, and I’d only known her for about five minutes.
“Nothing whatsoever,” Miss Ogilvy said. “We were thick as thieves, and then she was just gone. Her sister hasn’t heard from her, either. And the neighbors haven’t seen her around, which is unusual.”
“What does the husband say?” I asked.
“That she’s out. Whenever I visit.”
I dropped my cigarette butt in the ashtray and lit another one. “Usually, a family member initiates a missing-person report.”
“Her family is up in Nashville. All she has here is Chester.”
“And you think Chester might have done something to her?”
“Oh, I hope not.”
This conversation was becoming circular and annoying. In a nonchalant way I figured might seem unintentional, I blew some smoke in her face. “Well, what do you think happened?”
She coughed and waved a hand in front of her mouth. “That’s why I came to you. So you would find out.”
“Terrific,” I said. “Sounds like fun.”
6
I took a drive to Chester March’s stately manse on Overton Park Avenue to get a look at the guy and see if I could figure out how much of a piece of shit he was.
The houses in the Evergreen neighborhood of Midtown Memphis were built around the turn of the century, but in the antebellum style—the mansions were fronted by ostentatious colonnades, the columns held up the heavy second-story balconies, and the balconies shaded the wraparound porches.
The nostalgic elegance of the neighborhood was giving way to shabbiness, though. By the mid-’50s, the rich had already begun fleeing Midtown and moving out to the suburbs and unincorporated areas of Shelby County. The construction of the new highway loop, as well as the recent proliferation of fully enclosed automobiles with heating and air-conditioning, meant it was no longer necessary to live in close proximity to the downtown business district, and a recent decision by Chief Justice Earl Warren was set to render the Memphis City Schools unacceptable to most of the better-heeled whites.
I parked on the street; there was a car parked in Chester’s driveway, a red Buick Roadmaster Skylark. It was a nice enough ride that even if you were rich enough not to have to care about things, you probably still wouldn’t want to leave it out in the elements. The house had an attached garage, but the door was closed. I wondered what he was keeping in there instead of his car.
I found March sitting on his porch in a rocking chair, drinking something with a lot of ice in it out of a highball glass. Next to him, a large fan noisily agitated the soupy July air. The fan was powered by an extension cord that ran through the open front door of the house. I peered into the foyer, but there was nothing in plain view that appeared incriminating, so I didn’t have any justification or probable cause that would allow me to toss the house or frisk the occupant. Why couldn’t things ever be easy?
I sized Chester up. He wore his hair in a short, clean cut, and he used just enough pomade to keep it in place. His jacket was white summer linen, and his shirt collar was white and crisp, despite the intense heat and the oppressive humidity. Whoever did his laundry must have been some kind of wizard, or else he was in the habit of wearing his linens just once and then throwing them out, because they showed no indication of ever having been sullied by proximity to human skin.
He had a fine aquiline nose and a well-defined, arrogant jaw. Some folks might have thought him a handsome man, and maybe he even came across that way in pictures, but there was something off about him, a coldness to his manner and a flatness to his affect that made his fine features seem too sharp and jagged.
I was wearing summer-weight wool by Sears, Roebuck that afternoon, but wool doesn’t come in a weight that is appropriate for July in Memphis, so I was doing a pretty good job of schvitzing through my suit. All my shirts had yellowish stains around their cuffs and collars that Rose could never quite get out. I suppose I’d have to admit that Chester looked better than me, though I would not have required much provocation to ugly him up some.
“Are you the man of the house?” I asked him.
He took a long sip from the glass and then dabbed at his lips with a linen handkerchief. “None other,” he said. I think he was trying to seem bored by my presence, but the slightest crease appeared in the middle of his forehead, revealing his annoyance. He was a man accustomed to deference, and a man accustomed to everyone knowing exactly who he was. He did not seem to be a man who was accustomed to fielding pointed questions from pushy Jews in damp, rumpled suits.
I climbed the porch steps and positioned myself so the big fan would blow my cigarette smoke in March’s direction. “That’s a mighty nice automobile,” I said, pointing at the Skylark. “Is it yours?”
“Yes, it is,” Chester said. I waited a few seconds in case he wanted to talk about his car. Most people with cars like that liked to talk about them. I liked talking about cars, and I liked people who liked talking about cars. But Chester didn’t say anything. I did not like Chester.
I asked, “Is your wife here?”
His lips turned up, flashing a set of straight, white teeth at me. “Usually, when a stranger comes around looking to liaise with a lady, said stranger will exercise a bit more discretion with regard to her husband.”
I showed him my shield. “People are worried about Mrs. March. I just want to make sure she’s all right. So, is she around?”
The crease in Chester’s forehead became more pronounced. “People should mind their own business,” he said.
“I asked you a question.”
He took a sip from his drink and smacked his lips. “Ooh, that’s nice. You know, the custom around these parts is to drink whiskey cocktails in warm weather, but this is much more refreshing. It’s white Cuban rum with lime juice, cane sugar, and a sprig of mint. I’d have my girl fix one for you, but I’m sure an upstanding officer such as yourself wouldn’t take a drink while you’re on duty, and I’m not sure I’d like you to stay around long enough to properly enjoy it.”
“Where’s your wife, Mr. March?”
He smiled his mirthless smile again. “She’s out, I guess.”
“When will she be back?”
“You know, I didn’t think to ask.”
I pointed toward the open front door. “Can I take a look around inside?”
“I would prefer you didn’t,” he said. I considered pushing that issue, but decided against it. A guy like that would have a swarm of needle-toothed lawyers on retainer. If I wanted to get Chester, I’d need to be very careful not to give them any opportunity to challenge my evidence.
“What if I hang around until Mrs. March gets back?”
He shrugged and took another sip from his drink. “Well, I’ve no inclination to entertain you while you wait. Of course, you may do whatev
er you’d like once you’re beyond the edge of my property. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay out of my eyeline, though. I don’t enjoy looking at you.”
I went back to my car, parked on the curb, and sat in it for half an hour, watching March as he sat in his rocker, drinking his icy drink and letting his fan ruffle his hair. Then I left. My unmarked vehicle had no air conditioner, and my shirt was sticking to my chest. And Margery wasn’t going to be coming back; I was pretty sure.
TRANSCRIPT: AMERICAN JUSTICE
CHESTER MARCH: So, the first time I met Buck Schatz was when he came to my house to tell me my wife was missing.
WATKINS: He came to tell you? You didn’t already know?
MARCH: She was always what you might call a strong-willed woman. She went off on her own sometimes—trips with her friends or visits to her parents. So when she didn’t come home at night, I never really worried much. Women were becoming independent in those days, and as a cosmopolitan gentleman, I had no objection to that. I never expected Margery to be waiting around with dinner on the table when I got home, and, in any case, we had a girl who came in and kept the house up and did the cooking so Margery was free to follow her whims. I was all right on my own and never minded a little peace and quiet, and Margery always came back. Until she didn’t.
WATKINS: You were eventually convicted of murdering her.
MARCH: On the flimsiest of evidence, in a kangaroo courtroom, twenty years later. But you know that, or you wouldn’t even be talking to me.
WATKINS: They found her body.
MARCH: They claim they found skeletal remains, decades after the alleged murder. Completely unidentifiable. I don’t know where they got that skeleton. Nobody knows where they got that skeleton except Detective Schatz, and the only thing you can trust about a cop is the fact that a cop is going to lie.
You know, my lawyers keep asking for DNA tests to be performed on those remains, and the state just fights tooth and nail against it. If they’re gonna put me to death, they should at least be willing to perform scientific tests on the alleged evidence.
WATKINS: That seems reasonable. What’s their basis for objecting to the test?
MARCH: I think they don’t want to do the tests because they’ve got something to hide. But what they say is that it would be disrespectful to re-exhume the body. They say it would cause distress to the family. Hell! If they really believe that’s even her, she’s been dead fifty-five years. Margery ain’t got any family still alive that remembers her.
WATKINS: Except you.
MARCH: Well, Carlos, I expect that what is going to cause me more distress is the lethal injection. Oh! The other thing they say is that the remains are so old that DNA results will come back inconclusive. If a DNA test is inconclusive, I should get a new trial!
WATKINS: What about the statement you gave to Detective Schatz?
MARCH: You ever heard the phrase “fruit of the poison tree,” Carlos? It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t it? Like something out of the Bible. The fruit of the poison tree. It means that any evidence collected in violation of a suspect’s rights by police misconduct is untrustworthy. Inadmissible. That coerced statement is the fruit of the poison tree. It never should have been presented to a jury. Evidence gathered based on the things they say I told them should have been excluded. What that man did to me should never happen in America.
WATKINS: We’re definitely going talk about that, but we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves. Let’s get back to the first time the two of you met.
MARCH: You ever see a guy, and the look of him just scares you? That was Schatz. He wasn’t a tall man, but he had some mass to him, and he carried himself in a way that let you know he was dangerous. You can look at Buck and tell he’s the kind of guy who would know the right way to hit you in the throat with his elbow and make it so you couldn’t swallow solid food for ten days. Living where I’ve been living the last thirty-five years, you meet a lot of fellas who will posture and boast and threaten, but it’s pretty easy to figure out which of them will step up and which of them will back down.
WATKINS: And Buck Schatz was the kind to step up?
MARCH: Buck Schatz was the kind who seemed like he was just looking for an excuse to hurt somebody. He had these dark, deep-set eyes and heavy brows. And that big Jewish nose, like a hawk’s beak. That’s what he looked like. A huge predatory bird. But that might give you the wrong impression of him, make him sound like he was light on his feet or something. He actually had this clumpy way of walking, like maybe something was a little bit wrong with him.
WATKINS: He got shot, fighting in Europe.
MARCH: Oh yeah? How’d that happen?
WATKINS: He was in a prison camp, and one German guard shot him in the back to stop him from beating another guard to death with his bare hands.
MARCH: That sounds like something that would happen to Buck Schatz. Did he tell you about that?
WATKINS: No. I got it from military records and research in newspaper archives. I haven’t managed to pin Schatz down for an interview yet. I’ve called him on the telephone a couple of times to set a meeting, but he’s being cagey.
MARCH: Keep at him. He’ll talk to you.
WATKINS: Because he’s the kind of guy who steps up rather than backs down?
MARCH: Because that son of a bitch can’t resist conflict. Do you know about Schatz and his cigarettes? The guy chain-smokes, constantly. It’s unbelievable that he’s lived this long, the way he pollutes his body. He is always surrounded by a cloud, like the Pigpen kid from the Snoopy comic strip. And he’s real aggressive with it. It’s a power thing for him. He’ll blow smoke on you, or he’ll throw his butts and ashes on the floor, and he’ll look you right in the eye while he’s doing it, like he’s daring you to confront him about his refusal to follow even the most basic norms of polite society. He thinks it’s funny. This is a very childish man.
WATKINS: We were talking about the day you met him, when he came to tell you your wife was missing.
MARCH: Some busybody friend of Margery’s had reported her missing, so he came around to check out what was happening. I guess he didn’t like the look of me, because he had it in for me almost from the start. He was really pushy, and he wanted to look inside the house. Of course I was not going to give a police officer permission to come into my domicile. Anyone who has ever even met a lawyer knows better. When I turned him away, he went and sat in his car, just staring at me. He waited like that for maybe half an hour. Just a scary guy, sitting there, breathing smoke, and figuring out how to ruin me.
WATKINS: And then what did he do?
MARCH: He ruined me.
7
“The smart thing to do is not to do anything,” I said as I hacked at a tuna croquette with a fork. The croquettes were pretty simple to make—just canned tuna, bread crumbs from a box, and chopped onions, fried in vegetable shortening—but they were one of my favorite meals.
“Why is that smart?” my mother asked. She roughly wiped ketchup off of Brian’s face. The baby was three. Bird was sixty-three. “This woman is dead, the husband killed her. Go get him.”
“I think she’s dead, but I don’t know she’s dead.” I dunked a piece of tuna in ketchup and popped it into my mouth.
“What’s the difference?”
“Have you ever heard of Schrödinger’s cat?” I asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“Imagine you’ve got a cat, and the cat is in a box. And there is also a vial of poison in the box, which might or might not shatter and kill the cat. Until you open the box, you can’t know if the vial has been shattered, so you don’t know if the cat is alive or dead. So, the argument is that the cat exists in a state of being both alive and dead.”
Mother frowned. “I don’t understand. What kind of evil person puts a cat in a box with poison?”
“It’s not a literal cat,” I said. “It’s a thought exercise.”
“But you have to be a real degenerate to
want to think about torturing animals.”
“The point is that, since the cat is sealed in the box, you don’t know whether the vial of poison has shattered. The point is how you treat that uncertainty.”
She shrugged. “Why wouldn’t you just open the box and look?”
“It’s used as an analogy for thinking about particles that are difficult to observe. But also, there’s value in not knowing. That’s how it is with investigating missing people.” I said. Rose came into the room carrying a bowl of canned peas that she’d heated up on the stove. I helped myself to a big spoonful. “Once you know something, an unpleasant chain of events can follow from that knowledge.”
Rose offered my mother the peas. Bird sniffed at them, wrinkled her nose, and waved them off. “So you pretend to be ignorant, and this killer gets away with everything? Where’s the value in that?”
“We’ve got a list of all the year’s murders downtown,” I said. “It’s got the names of the victims, the names of the detectives investigating, and whether we solved them. I don’t want to be the man who finishes the year with his name on that list next to a bunch of murders that aren’t solved. Chester March is rich and clever. The wife has been missing for weeks. He’s had plenty of time to destroy the evidence. I can call this a murder. I can start this process. But I don’t know if I can finish it.”
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