The Final Alibi

by Simon King

  “You don’t have to apologize, Jeremy,” Steph said, smiling at him.

  “And I cannot tell you just how close I actually came to making that daydream a reality. But…” his voice trailed off a little as he took another drag.

  “You doubted it, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding, “I always had this little niggle in the back of my mind that questioned whether he actually killed her. That’s why I wanted him to look at me during the trial, something he never did. So, I told him. I woke him up and had him come to the door. I had the trap down and watched him climb out from his bed and shuffle over. I shone my torch into his face, waited for him to wake up properly, then told him who I was.” Another long drag, then a sip from his tea, followed by another drag. He held it again, impossibly long, the silence of the kitchenette now screaming at us.

  “What did you see?” Steph asked. He looked at her for a minute then took another drag. He finally crushed his butt out in the ashtray and spoke again.

  “I can tell you what I didn’t see. I didn’t see the man that killed my baby sister. I don’t know how else to describe it. Except that the man who I saw that night, whose eyes I looked into, was not the man that ended Veronica’s life.” My heart jumped at the words, my stomach took a turn and I felt something give within me. I too, had the same niggle for the past 20 years and was terrified by this man now confirming his own trepidation.

  “How can you be so sure?” Steph asked, pulling out her own packet of cigarettes and offering them up. Jeremy took one, lighting it and Steph’s with another match.

  “Because the one thing a man cannot hide, Officer, is his eyes. Whatever secrets he has, whatever words he speaks, they mean nothing if the eyes don’t support them. But I didn’t just leave it there. He actually told me a lot more. Like the girl he had been seeing.”

  “He had a girlfriend?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yes, he did. Told me the whole story. But he never named her. Said he wanted to protect her from all the haters out there. He knew that if people knew about her, they would go after her. Of that, you could be sure of. Harry Lightman having a girlfriend, can you imagine?”

  “What did he say about her?” Steph asked.

  “He said they met by sheer accident. They would never have met if his bike didn’t have a flat tyre. He was taking a shortcut back to town and had crossed through a paddock when he came across her. She was just sitting in the sun. She had been singing, that’s what caught his attention.”

  “Met where?” Steph suddenly asked. I could see her attention peak, sitting forward in her chair.

  “He never said. Just that he had cut through a paddock and heard her singing. He did tell me he loved her, though. More than anything. And again, watching him tell the story, his eyes never lied. I could tell he loved this girl, whoever she was.”

  “Did he see her again? What happened?” I asked.

  “He said they met lots of times. Although he never met her parents. Said she told him they wouldn’t understand.”

  “He never named her?” Steph asked.

  “No, never. I pressed him a couple of times, but he wouldn’t say.”

  “Did he tell you anything else?” I asked but Jeremy shook his head.

  “Mr. Lawson, you of all people should understand what I mean when I say that you can see into a man’s soul by peering into his eyes. You looked into those eyes while he was still out there, free. Tell me, what did you see?” I did understand, and I knew what he was talking about, because I too, had reservations about whether he was Lucifer. It had been one of those situations where you are completely sure of one thing, but still found the minutest niggle from confirming the truth. For me, I was sitting at exactly 99/1.

  There was a knock on the front door of the shop then, and Jeremy looked toward the sound.

  “I’d better open, if that’s OK with you?” He stood, holding out his hand to us. I took it and shook, as did Steph.

  “Thank you, Jeremy, we really appreciate you talking with us,” she said as she let go, turning to walk out of the room.

  “If you remember anything else, please let us know. Anything at all,” I said as I walked through the door and into his storefront.

  “I will try. I doubt there is anything else that could be useful to you. If I was to make a suggestion though, it would be for you to talk to Dr. Levinson.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “He is the visiting psychiatrist that came in to see specific prisoners on occasion. One of his main patients was Harry Lightman. Although most of what he got up to was pretty hush hush if you know what I mean.”

  “Ok, we’ll be sure to follow up with him. Thank you, Jeremy.” As we neared the front door, he paused for a minute, the expression on his face lighting up, as if remembering something comical.

  “Funny thing. The only thing that I do remember is probably something I’d rather forget. It used to drive me crazy about him.” He chuckled a little as he spoke. Steph unlocked the door and was about to step out when Jeremy spoke his last bit of information. I now wish he hadn’t.

  “He always whistled that dam song. Day and night.”

  “What song?” I asked.

  “Fur Elise,” he said. In front of me, Steph froze.

  3.

  “Steph, you don’t know,” I said, trying to sound logical. She was driving now, a cigarette in one hand as it held the steering wheel, her face stern as a brick.

  “I don’t fucking believe this,” she screamed. A woman walking along the footpath heard her, looked at us as we passed and began shaking her head. “Do you have any idea what this could mean?”

  “You don’t know. Just because he whistled that song doesn’t mean anything. Lots of people whistle that dam song.”

  “My mother told me she had been sitting behind her house by the river, singing, when Eddie first found her. He had been crossing the field, using it as a shortcut. THAT FUCKER COULD BE MY FATHER!” She swerved the wheel sideways and came to a halt in the gravel, the car jolting as it stopped. She opened her door and climbed out, slamming the door with such force, that for a moment, I thought the glass would surely shatter and come flying into my lap. I climbed out after her and tried to calm her. There was an abandoned house sitting 50 yards away from the gravel pit we stopped in and Steph was throwing rocks at it, her tears falling freely around her shoulders with each rock that she launched. I walked behind her, grabbed her wrist and pulled her into me. She resisted at first then submitted, sobbing into my shoulder. I could feel her anger, her shock, her terror. Her body felt tensed up and rigid. I thought she was going to collapse to the ground, but then she managed to regain control of herself.

  “Shhh,” I whispered into her ear, “It will be OK, Steph. I promise, things will be OK.”

  She pulled away a little, then began to giggle. I looked at her, confused. She peered up at me and smiled.

  “Well, this certainly wasn’t the birthday present I was hoping for today.”

  4.

  The drive back to Cider Hill took a little longer as there was more traffic. At one point, a truck loaded with hay bales blocked our path, crawling along at an astounding 20 miles per hour. Steph asked me to drive, something I gladly agreed with, considering her emotional state. I felt much more comfortable having her sitting in the passenger seat, her emotions still coming and going in long waves that were tense one minute and confused the next. We listened to the radio for the most part, when the signal allowed for it anyway. Other times, we drove in silence, the scenery slipping past us with every turn of the wheel.

  We stopped about 20 miles or so out of Cider Hill. An Esso fuel station stood there, run by Margaret Robertson. Her husband had opened the fuel stop ten years prior, figuring it would be good to have two businesses on the same land; the farm and the fuel. The farm is what proved to be his downfall, killing him back in 51. Like so many farming accidents of the time, heavy machinery played a contributing factor. In James Robertson�
��s case, a hidden rock, a fast-moving tractor and a tired farmer taking a shortcut across an unkept paddock at the end of the day would all combine to ensure that was one work day, Margaret’s husband would not be returning from.

  “Hi Officer Connor,” a young lad of about 15 said as we opened our doors. He was already grabbing the pump nozzle, getting ready to fill the FX’s tank.

  “Hey, Billy. Is your Mum inside?” He nodded and pointed at the little shop window, a middle-aged woman with a handkerchief tied over her hair standing there watching us. She waved as Steph turned to look. Steph waved back and headed inside. I stretched my arms long and hard towards the sky, groaned satisfyingly as my spine clicked, then followed. Steph was giving the woman a hug as I stepped inside and began to introduce me.

  “Margaret, this is-”

  “Jim Lawson, I know. I recognize you from this.” I blushed as she held up my book, Nightmares Unhinged. It had a photo of me inside the back page, a photo I was never too fond of. My colour increased, making both ladies giggle a little, as Margaret held it out to me and asked if I would be kind enough to autograph it. I happily did, feeling the heat in my face.

  “I’ve always enjoyed a decent scare. ‘Specially if it’s about monsters and stuff.”

  “Thank you,” I croaked. She turned back to Steph, returning the book under the counter.

  “What brings you out this way?”

  “Just back from Geelong. Police business.” Steph walked to the display fridge, took out a Coke and held one out to me. I thanked her, popped the top with the bottle opener that hung from one door and took a long swallow. Steph did the same, then sat at one of the tables and lit a cigarette.

  “Any news on finding the killer?” Margaret asked. Steph shook her head.

  “Do you remember Mum talking about Eddie?” she asked, then turned to me. “Margaret and Mum were friends since they were little.”

  “She used to talk about him often. She loved him very much, you know. Of course, she couldn’t tell me what he looked like,” she said with a giggle, and for a moment, I didn’t follow. Then it hit me and I realized what an impossible feat that would have been. Her mother had been born blind. “She did say that he had a very kind face, her hands acting as her eyes, of course. His short hair was always combed straight, she said. She told me once that when they were lying on the river’s edge, listening to the birds, she used to love to run her fingers through it because he would do the same to her. Is everything OK? Why do you ask?”

  “It’s nothing. Just missing her, I guess.” Her lie came out with such ease that I wondered how often she has had to lie about her history in the past. I can’t imagine it would have been easy not knowing anything about her father.

  The lad walked in just then, also grabbing a Coke from the fridge.

  “Not too many of those today, Franky.” Her voice was stern and I could see Franky give his Mum a look that told me when she spoke, he listened.

  “Yes, Mum,” he said, then sat at the table with us and handed Steph her keys. “It’s all filled, tyres are good and the windows are cleaned.” She smiled at him, rubbed his head and thanked him. He grinned back, then blushed fiercely as she planted a kiss on his cheek. His mother began to laugh.

  5.

  Steph drove us to the police station after leaving the Robertson’s farm. As we walked in the door, Rademeyer was standing behind the counter talking with Lester, both men appearing deep in conversation. Rademeyer looked in our direction but appeared not to notice us, his words continuing at a steady pace. I followed Steph around the side of the counter and down the hall to a small room which held a single desk. She dropped down into the chair behind it, turned it toward a box that sat on the floor and began rummaging through it, after a moment picking out a couple of thick folders. I saw a photo frame sitting on the edge of the table and picked it up. A woman with long light hair was sitting at a piano, her smile conveying her pleasure at playing the instrument.

  “Is this your Mum?” I asked and Steph nodded. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Jim. Here, check this out,” she said, handing me one of the folders. It was a folder marked “Medical Appointments” and when I opened it, found several thin books that had served as appointment schedules for Harry Lightman. They dated from the early 30s right through to this year. In the beginning, there were only the normal doctor’s visits for the usual ailments. A dentist’s visit in 36, the doctor for the flu in 38, stuff like that. The physician’s names were written next to the patient, as well as the date and ailment. I flicked through the books, nothing really jumping out. That was until I began to flick through the book that had 1949-1950 written on the front. There was a physician’s name that seemed to appear more and more often. Initially just once or twice a week, and not just for Lightman. The name was Julius Levinson.

  “Here, I think I’ve found him,” I said, pulling my chair closer to Steph’s so she could see the entries as well. She set her own folder aside and pulled mine across onto the desk. I slowly began to turn the pages for the month of August 1949, seeing Dr. Levinson visit the prison twice during the first week, once the second week, twice again during the third week, then four the last week. September was similar and so was October. His appointments varied between prisoners and I saw that he saw Lightman once in August, once in September and twice in October. Then, in November 1949, Dr. Levinson saw Lightman four times, once each week. In December he saw him five times. In January six. By April, the last month for this book, Levinson saw Harry twice per week at regular times.

  As we began to flick through the following book, titled 1950-1951, the same pattern began to emerge, two visits per week, every week. Then, in November of 50, the visits increased to 4 times a week. I closed the current book and opened the next one, titled 1951- 1952. The first couple of months were much the same. He would see other prisoners as well, their names written in the ledger, but none were as regular as Harry, and Harry’s appointments remained much the same, four regular appointments per week. Then, in June 1950, Levinson’s name disappeared. A new doctor’s name was written in all the appointment slots, Dr. Lewis, this new doctor seeing all the patients at regular intervals. All except Harry. I opened the newest of the books, titled 1953- 1954. February, March, April and May continued as had the previous months before them, regular appointments with all the prisoners except Harry.

  Then, in June 1953, Levinson’s name reappeared in the book, his name written every single weekday in the same spot. And he was visiting a single prisoner exclusively. That prisoner was Harry Lightman. I looked at Steph as her face grew suspicious, waiting for her to speak.

  “Why would he only see Lightman?” she finally said. I shook my head, unsure.

  “And why take that break?” I replied, counting the months. “Twelve-month gap. Bit long for it to be a holiday.”

  “And a long time not to see a regular patient. Weird. I wonder…” she said as she turned back to the box, looking for another folder.

  “What are you thinking?” I said, curious. She was busy flicking through papers, books and stuff when she pulled something out.

  “Ah, found it,” she said as she put another book on the desk. This one was titled “Visitors” and had all the visitors that came to the prison listed with their entry and exit times. Being such a specific prison with a relatively small number of residents, visitor numbers were pretty much at a minimum compared to a normal prison such as Pentridge or Beechworth. She opened the book and began at the beginning, running her finger down the list of names, stopping at each entry that read “Dr. Levinson/ Prisoner Lightman”. After a moment she looked at me.

  “Wow, he was spending a long time with him. Look,” she said as she pointed to an entry. It showed Levinson enter the prison at 10.20 am and leave at 3.45pm. Another showed him arriving at 11.10 and not leave again until 5.30pm.

  “Bit longer than the usual hour,” I said, following her finger down the page.

  “Can you think of any reas
on why he would be spending so much time with him?” Steph asked, looking up from the page. I shook my head.

  “I’m not one to answer that. I didn’t make it my life to treat many patients. I know I have the title, but between you and me, I was never a good psychiatrist. My heart just wasn’t in it. But, if I was to have a guess, I would say he was conducting research of some description.” She nodded, as if understanding.

  “Think we should talk to him?”

  “Talk to who?” a voice suddenly said from behind me. It was Rademeyer’s.

  “We’ve been going over some of these files, Chief. There’s a doctor that’s been spending a lot of time with Lightman.” Steph said.

  “How much time?” he asked. His tone didn’t sound like one of peaked interest, sounding instead, like someone who was going to doubt, regardless of the information conveyed. Steph shuffled uncomfortably in her chair. I knew that behind me, Rademeyer enjoyed his intimidation of the girl.

  “A lot,” I said, turning my chair. “A lot longer than someone visiting a regular patient.”

  “Lightman isn’t a regular patient,” he said.

  “No, maybe not. But in the end, he’s nothing more than a killer and as such, not that different to the rest of the murderers already up there. Levinson is spending up to thirty hours a week with him. Doesn’t that sound rather excessive, Frank?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t know either way, I’m not a quack, Jim. That’s what I got you in on this for. If you think it’s worth following up then please do. But just remember, there are more bodies piling up and I don’t want you two to go off on some tangent when the real killer is out here somewhere. And one more thing. I received a call from a Richard Lovett.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Richard Lovett is the legal counsel for Lightman and he is going for a straight release based on the new murders. I’m told he’s a pit-bull and won’t lie down on this. So, you two get your fingers out of your butts and find this prick either way. We have to know what’s going on before we have two of them roaming around.”