Authors: William Lashner
They put me in a small green room in the Roundhouse. The table was cheap, the chairs hard, the place smelled like sweat and vinegar and dead mice. But you had no excuse not to look snazzy, because the room had a great mirror on one of the walls in which you could straighten your collar and check your teeth.
Julia was in an identical room somewhere in that same ugly building. I assumed they were giving her the business. Sims was whispering sweet nothings into her ear; Hanratty was banging on the table. But no matter how tough it got, I figured she was holding up just fine.
Julia always had a place deep within the recesses of her emotions where she could retreat, a sanctuary from which even those who loved her the most were barred. It exists in all of us, that last place that others never reach, but in Julia it was a cavernous castle, with a fearsome moat and chains on the doors and evil dwarfs as guards. Even Gollum couldn’t have slipped inside. If Sims had chased her into her sanctuary, it didn’t matter how
hard Hanratty banged on the table or knocked on the door, they weren’t getting in.
When we came out together from the door of my apartment in the middle of the night, the two cops climbed out of the car as if they had been expecting us all along. Sims was kind and courteous, uttering solicitous words to the grieving widow, holding the rear door open as he offered us both a ride. Hanratty glared at me with a brutal little smile on his granite face. I was getting a pretty good idea of the range of Hanratty’s facial expressions. And the drive east, toward the river and the Roundhouse, had been almost jolly. Sims had talked about his planned retirement, how big would be the trout, how clear would be the air.
“You ever fish in Montana, Hanratty?” said Sims.
“I don’t fish,” said Hanratty.
“Fly-fishing, I’m talking about.”
“I don’t fish.”
“Neither do I,” said Sims. “And I’ve never been to Montana. But I’m going as soon as I get my twenty-five. The land’s cheap and the trout are jumpy. I’ve been reading up.
A River Runs Through It.
”
“Runs through what?” said Hanratty.
“Montana,” said Sims.
“What river?”
“I don’t know. The Mississippi, maybe.”
“The Mississippi doesn’t run through Montana.”
“Where does it run?”
“Iowa.”
“Who the hell goes to Iowa to fish flies?”
“Don’t ask me, I don’t fish.”
“Well, let me tell you, Hanratty, you don’t retire to fish flies in Iowa. Montana is it.”
“What river?”
“Who the hell knows the name of a river in Montana?” said Sims. “Any ideas, Victor?”
“Take up knitting,” I said.
It was quite an act—if vaudeville were still alive, they could have taken it on the road—but it wasn’t putting me at ease, like they intended. At the Roundhouse they were pleasant as could be, gallantly opening doors, offering up cups of cop coffee, tepid, bitter, and thick.
“Can you wait in here a moment, Victor?” said Sims, gesturing toward the small green room.
I went in and sat down. Sims closed the door, leaving me in there alone. I checked myself in the mirror. No jacket, no tie, haggard and unshaven and sallow. In a green room, under fluorescent lights, even a cherub looks like an ax murderer.
I tried to fathom the depths of the trouble into which I had fallen, and I failed. Things were happening above and below, all around. I could sense their shapes and movement, but the purposes remained mere shadows. Still, I knew the taste of trouble and this was it, oily and electric, with too much salt and a bitter pinch of cumin. Oh, yes, I was neck deep. Sims seemed ready to help me out, for reasons that left me feeling squirrelly, but Hanratty had a hard-on for me, I could tell. Is that a baton in your pocket, Officer, or do you just want to smash my face against the wall?
A knock on the door. It swung open, and a young uniform poked his head inside. “Detective Sims thanks you for your patience and says he’ll be with you in just a moment.”
“That’s what he said an hour ago.”
“I’m sure it won’t be too long.”
“I’m glad you’re sure,” I said as he closed the door behind him.
I drummed my fingers on the table. I stared at my watch. I tried to think it through.
How to handle the next few hours, the next few days as the cops investigated the murder of Dr. Wren Denniston and found themselves someone to pin it on, was the question plaguing me. And the answer, I knew, hinged on Julia. Was she the love of my life, a savior who had returned to rescue me from an increasingly
dismal existence? If so, then I needed to do all I could to protect her. What false story wouldn’t we concoct for true love? What crime wouldn’t we commit? And hadn’t the two of us agreed, in my apartment, to trust one another, not to turn each on the other, and, at least for the moment, to keep our mouths shut?
On the other hand, if Julia had opened our rapprochement for the sole purpose of using me as a lifeline out of a brutal crime she planned to commit, then she was nothing but a manipulative psychopath set on endangering both my physical and emotional well-being. Of course, what else could one expect from an old girlfriend, and about par for the course in my relationships, but something to avoid nonetheless. And the easiest way to avoid it was to sing like a rock star and wash my hands of the whole foul mess.
The problem was, I couldn’t figure out who she was, which I suppose was a clue right there. I mean, what kind of relationship was possible if I was unsure of the basic psychological makeup of the object of my affection? She could be just a messed-up girl or a dark-hearted murderess? Either way I was in for trouble.
And I couldn’t help but wonder why she had finally come back to me, and why now? I thought about the letters Julia had shown me. “SLUT. WHORE. WITCH’S CUNT. FAT SLOB. SLAGHEAP. BANGSTER. YOU GREEDY BITCH.” Something about the letters seemed to be the clue to everything. It was the letters, she said, that had caused her to call. If she had written them herself, she couldn’t have found a sweeter opening. And who says she didn’t? Write the notes, stuff them in plain envelopes, drop them into the mailing slot to set up the old lover to take her fall. Even finding her fingerprints on the letters would tell us nothing. Mine were now on them, too. If she had sent the letters herself, then she had been setting me up from the start. But then again, if someone else had sent the letters, maybe the sender should be the prime suspect.
I tried to think it through, but the night had already been too long, and I was too tired, and I failed.
I checked that the door was unlocked. It was, which made me feel strangely vulnerable. I slipped out of the room, swiveled my head like a leopard escaping from his cage, and then explored just enough to find a bathroom.
It hurt when I peed. My testicles felt heavy and bruised. At least I wouldn’t have to lie about that. When I stepped outside the bathroom, with the intent to traipse up and down the hall looking for Julia, the same young uniform was waiting in the hallway to kindly lead me back to the green room. I thought I heard a click after the door closed. I tried the knob again. This time it was locked.
I sat and sighed. I twiddled my thumbs. I leaned back, kicked my legs out, watched my beard grow in the mirror. My head lolled on the top rail of the chair, and I fell asleep.
It was at that very moment, of course, that the door burst open and Sims and Hanratty marched into the room.
Hanratty closed the door and leaned on it, barring any attempt to flee. Sims sat down across from me and smiled like a kindly uncle, you know, the kindly uncle who feels your muscles through your sweatshirt to tell you how strong you are and asks you down to the basement to take some pictures.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Victor,” said Sims.
“Oh, I bet you are,” I said, wiping my eyes with the heels of my palms. “Where’s Julia?”
“She’s being taken care of. She’s with her lawyer right now, as a matter of fact, a nice gentleman named Clarence Swift. He’s been quite helpful, I must say, more helpful than his client. But we’re close to getting this thing wrapped up without her cooperation, except for a few minor details which we hoped you could help us with.”
“I doubt I could help you with anything.”
“Don’t be so sure, Victor. We think your help can be enormous.”
“Like the fat lady at the circus,” said Hanratty.
“Are we talking about your mother again, Hanratty?” I said.
“Let’s start with tonight, shall we?” said Sims. “When did you meet up with Mrs. Denniston, and where?”
I closed my eyes, tried to figure out what I should do, failed, and decided instead to punt. “You haven’t read me my rights.”
“You’re not a suspect, Victor. We don’t need to read you your rights, which you, anyway, know better than we do. But we would very much appreciate your full assistance.”
“And I would appreciate a full body massage.”
“And a happy ending, too, I assume.”
“Are you volunteering?”
He shook his head wearily. “You’re not going to help.”
I glanced at the mirror. “Not tonight I won’t.”
“Maybe Hanratty here can persuade you,” said Sims. “My wife once asked him over to help rearrange our furniture. He made a mess of it, of course, smashed china, battered walls. Like a bull in the bridal section of Macy’s. I wouldn’t want that to happen to your face, not that it couldn’t use some rearranging.”
I rubbed my jaw.
“Make it easy on yourself, Victor.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “One of those rights you failed to read to me is the right to remain silent. I don’t exercise much, but I’m exercising that.”
“We could subpoena you and drop you in front of a grand jury.”
“And I could plead the Fifth unless you give me immunity.” I turned to the mirror and grinned. “Are you ready to give me immunity, right here and right now?”
“What did I tell you?” said Hanratty.
“Victor, Victor, Victor,” said Sims, each recitation of my name accompanied by a shake of the head. “Why are you making this so hard? You’re only going to hurt yourself. There is no use trying to protect her.”
“I’m not trying to protect anyone,” I said, “but myself.”
“Siding with her is not the way to do it. This is what we’ve got so far, and you can figure out for yourself what it adds up to. Dr. Denniston was shot once, straight on. There was no apparent forced entry, no apparent robbery, no evidence of a struggle. The live-in housekeeper, a woman named Gwen McGrath—who makes a fabulous pecan pie, or so we’ve been told by Mr. Swift—said there was a loud argument between the Dennistons while she was still at the house. Not, she informed us, an unusual occurrence. In the middle of the argument, Mrs. Denniston told Gwen she could go on out for the evening. Gwen, who has a standing date for Sunday dinner with a man named Norman, locked up behind herself and set the alarm, leaving only the doctor and the wife in the house. When she came back a few hours later, about nine o’clock, she found the alarm activated and the house empty, except for Dr. Denniston dead in the library.”
“With the candlestick?” I said.
Sims smiled vaguely at the comment. I tried not to show how shaken I was.
“A single bullet in the forehead,” said Sims. “No weapon has yet been found, but Mr. Swift kindly informed us that Dr. Denniston did have a revolver, a quite shiny one, he told us. He kept the gun in the safe.”
“Is it still there?”
“We don’t know, we haven’t been able to open it yet, though a representative from the safe company will be at the house tomorrow. According to Mr. Swift, the combination was apparently known only by Dr. Denniston and his wife.”
“It’s nice that Mr. Swift has been so helpful.”
“Isn’t it, though?” said Sims. “And he is very interested in you, our Mr. Swift. Wanted to know your relationship with Mrs. Denniston. Wanted to see everything we had with your name on it.”
“Curious fellow.”
“That’s an understatement. So what we need to know from you are the answers to three small questions. As soon as you help us with our questions, we can arrange for you to be taken home. How does that sound?”
“I sure could use a shower.”
“You don’t have to tell us,” said Hanratty.
“And if you cooperate now, we’ll keep you out of it for as long as we can. We won’t call you before the grand jury, we won’t disclose your name to the papers.”
“And that helps me how?”
“Do you really want all the papers harping on your relationship to the dead man’s wife?”
“As long as they spell my name right,” I said.
“Victor, Victor, Victor. Can we begin?”
I thought about it for a long moment. Sims smiled easily and waited. Hanratty looked like he was struggling to keep from banging on the table with my head.
The whole factual recitation by Detective Sims was solely designed to convince me they had the goods on Julia Denniston, and I must say it had worked quite well. If everything he was telling me were true, who else could have committed the murder? And if she had committed the murder, then all my lowest paranoid suspicions were also true. I had made her a promise, and I owed her something, I figured, our past required it, but what did I owe her, really, other than the truth? And it’s not like she didn’t already have a lawyer on her side.
“She called me about ten from outside my apartment,” I said finally. “I invited her in. She was there when you guys showed up.”
“Showering,” said Hanratty.
“She asked if she could. I said it was okay.”
“I bet you did,” said Sims. “Do you mind if we run forensics tests on your apartment?”
“Knock yourselves out. Just be sure your guys screw the drain cover back into the shower floor.”
“How long had you been seeing her?”
“After she ran off with the now-dead doctor, we lost contact until a couple of weeks ago. She had been getting some strange letters. She called to ask if they were from me. I said they weren’t. But the renewed contact allowed us to work out some unresolved issues.”
“What kind of issues?”
“Personal issues, Detective.”
“Were you screwing her, Victor?”
“It all comes down to that, doesn’t it?”
“It usually does.”
“The details are none of your damn business.”
“But they are, you see. With a husband dead and the wife in your apartment shortly after the murder, it is definitely our business. Were you screwing her?”
“No.”
“Really? That’s strange, especially with her soaping up in your shower like that.”
“I’m more disappointed than you are.”
“What happened?”
“I was unbuttoning her pants and unhooking her bra the very moment you boys knocked.”
“Oh, that’s good,” said Sims. “That’s ripe.”
“‘Ripe’ is not quite the word I’d use.”
“And you’ll sign an affidavit as to all this?”
“Type it up.”
“Okay,” said Sims. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it? I’ll leave you in the good graces of my partner while I rustle up a CSI team and have the affidavit prepared.”
As soon as Sims left the room to talk to the assistant district attorney standing behind the mirror, Hanratty walked to the table and leaned over me. I could feel his hulking presence, smell the bad cop coffee on his breath. He placed his hand on the back of my head and pressed gently.
“I think Sims is missing half the story here.”
“Maybe,” I said without turning around, “but I’m not the half he’s missing.”
“I think you been slipping it to her for a good long time. I think, drunk on love, you both decided the easiest way to keep the fireworks going was to kill the husband. I think you and she hatched the whole damn thing.”
“Don’t think so much, Detective, you might strain something.”
“Anything you want to tell me right now? Anything you want to get off your chest?”
“I have nothing else to say.”
“Oh, you’ve got plenty to say, baby. And you’re going to spill it, all of it, before this is over. I’m not going to rest until I get the whole truth from you.”
“Then you’re going to be very tired,” I said.
A few minutes later, when Sims came back into the room, I was wiping off a thin line of blood from my brow. My head had accidentally rammed into the tabletop, imagine that. I guess Detective Hanratty didn’t like the crack about his mother.
“Had an accident?” said Sims as he placed the affidavit before me.
I read it carefully, made a few minor changes, signed it. And with that, I believed I had signed my way out of the whole damn thing. Julia now was on her own.
“Very good,” said Sims. “By the way, you ever hear of a guy named Cave?”
“Cave?”
“That’s it. Miles Cave?”
“No.”
“You sure, Victor?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, fine. Wait here just a moment, and then we’ll take you back to your apartment and conduct the search. And, Victor,
take my advice, why don’t you. From here on in, stay the hell away from old girlfriends. Nothing but trouble. It’s like my grandmother always said.”
“What’s that, Detective?”
“Old flames burn deadly.”