Cold Case (19 page)

“W
atch,” Todd said that Sunday on Frank's back porch. Earlier, he and Frank had gone out on an errand, and now he had two square glass vases on a table together side by side. He put a piece of ice in one, and a brick in the other with an identical piece of ice on top. Carefully he poured water tinted blue into both vases to come within about half an inch of the top of the brick. “Now we wait,” he said.

It was twenty degrees cooler than it had been the day before, and everyone was more cheerful. Darren had come home from the clinic early. “My new boys don't work Sundays,” he had said. “I think they were hungover, but they claimed religion took precedence. Fine with me. I want to get to some gardening.”

Watching ice melt, Barbara thought. Fitting way to spend a lazy Sunday evening. She sipped her wine. “I have a plan for you,” she said to Darren. “I figured it all out overnight. I know you can't turn the new guys loose on a patient, but why not let them work on each other? I was thinking of that contraption you use to hang people. I know, I know. You call it something else, stretching the vertebra out or something. In no time, you'd be down to one student, and cut your work in half.”

Darren drank from his can of beer, then nodded. “Sounds good. Frank, any liability if they manage to do one another in like that?”

Frank laughed. “I'm out of it. Todd, you want to help out in the kitchen?”

Todd jumped up.

Later Todd was disappointed that the melting ice had not caused the water to rise high enough to cover the brick. “More water next time,” he said. “Or maybe I could cut the brick in half, use less water, and make more of a point.” He looked at Frank, “You think I could cut a brick in half?”

Darren laughed softly when Frank and Todd took the brick into the garage where Frank had some tools. More than once Barbara had been deeply moved by the way Frank had taken to Todd. How many times she had thought he really wanted a son. With never a hint or suggestion that such was the case, the thought had recurred over the years, and now he had skipped the middleman and gone straight to a grandson, and he reveled in it. Finally, she thought, finally maybe she had done something right.

Bailey slouched in his chair on Monday morning, after slinging his coat over the back of it. He usually carried a coat even in the summer, but it was doubtful that he had ever put it on. Barbara thought it must be showing signs of wear in strange places from being carried over his arm year after year.

“Not much yet,” he said. “The McCrutchens had expensive tastes. Spent every cent that came in, and piled up hefty credit-card debt on top of it. Trips, his pricey apartment in Salem, clubs, new car every year. They take turns. She's living in an apartment with rent that starts at eighteen hundred—with maid service, two thousand. She has maid service. He played around, spent on women, piece of jewelry now and then, always the best restaurants, like that. Generally liked in Salem. A pretty good politician without any real axes to grind. Details,” he said, pointing to the folder he had put on the table.

“No woman trouble in sight, just fun and games. Got thick with Aaronson about three years ago, mostly land deals from what I could find out. It's going to take audits, and a lot of digging and a lot of time to get to the bottom of it. There's a possibility that cash he got from a few deals could have gone straight to a war chest for a run for governor. Or a secret account. It went somewhere, not his bank account. It also looks as if some big boys in Washington were taking an interest in him.”

He looked at Barbara shrewdly, and said, “It also looks as if Aaronson had more than enough reasons to want to keep his pal alive and helpful, not six feet under.”

He helped himself to more coffee, added sugar and cream and consulted his notes.

“Aaronson rakes it in as a consultant. No money problems, good credit rating. Never married. Several lady friends, nothing serious. Condo in town, time-shares condo on the coast, three employees. No complaints from them. He gets things done for his clients, makes it happen. He seems to be a big contributor to a charity he helped organize.” He looked surprised when Frank made a snorting sound.

“If Chloe McCrutchen played around, she kept it very quiet. Not a hint that I could find. Likes shows at the Hult, up in Portland, sometimes Seattle or San Francisco, Ashland. Plays golf at the country club, belongs to a fitness club. In other words, nothing. It's all in there.” He pointed again to the folder, then leaned back to drink his coffee, report complete.

Zilch, Barbara thought. Dead end. She turned to Shelley.

“Apparently there's general agreement that from eight to ten people stayed at the party late. I talked to them either in person or by phone, and tried to link names when they left together, but there's a bit of confusion there, and one of them kept mixing up that party with another one he went to. No one noticed any particular attention directed by David toward Jill. And no one seems to know when she left or when he did, either. They noticed that Robert had disappeared and decided the party was over and the remaining few took off.”

“Eight to ten,” Barbara said. “That meshes with what David said, and with the
x
's Robert drew. He had nine, but not one for the kid sleeping on the sofa, who made it ten. Ten little Indians, and no one saw a thing or overheard a thing. Way it goes.”

She glanced at Frank, who shook his head. “Well, nothing more until a charge,” she said. “The formal statement Wednesday, charge next week more than likely. I expect another flood of publicity after a charge is filed. Popular state senator, somewhat notorious writer. A lot of people will be after David's scalp and they'll be honing their hatchets.”

She remembered Frank's words—half the world trying to kill the other half over ideas. It was bound to play out right here in River City.

“Anyway, the point is that it will increase the risk of having David's whereabouts revealed. Your department, Bailey. Don't let it happen.”

He scowled and nodded. “Will he keep on going to the clinic?”

“Probably. I'll ask Darren.”

His scowl deepened. “And he'll have to appear when they charge him, a bail-bond hearing,” he said gloomily. He drained his cup. “Anything more for me?”

“One thing,” Barbara said. “Listen to this.” She brought out the notes she had made after her talk with Amy. “It's a bit of dialogue between Robert McCrutchen and Jill Storey the night of the party. First Jill.”

She read the words. “‘I said no. Leave me alone.' Robert's response, ‘Not what you said a couple of weeks ago.' Jill again, ‘That was then, this is now.' Robert, ‘How 'bout you pay me back my twenty-five bucks, then? Take it out in trade.' Jill, ‘You already took it out in trade. You got what you wanted, and so did I. Leave me alone.' I'll skip a line or two. Her last words, ‘Liked it! You disgust me, you and all the others. Stick it in, that's all you can think of! Stick it in anything that moves. Think with your prick, that's all you know. Well, listen to me, you filthy ape. I don't need you now. I was going to be evicted. Now I'm not. So beat it! Leave me alone!'”

Barbara looked at Bailey. “How do you interpret it?”

He regarded her suspiciously, as if confronted with a trick question. “She's telling him to get lost.”

“More,” Barbara said.

He looked mildly embarrassed then said, “Sounds like she needed money, he had some, and they made a deal. He thought he was entitled to more than he got, and she didn't.”

With a sigh Barbara returned the paper to her folder, and said to Shelley, “I think we may have a gender gap here.” Shelley nodded.

“Tell me what I'm missing,” Bailey said.

“We think that dialogue suggests that she was a lesbian.”

He looked doubtful. “Maybe. You want more than that. She said something about others, not just McCrutchen. A sideline with her? Routine? Lots of things come to mind before being gay.”

“That's the problem,” Barbara said. “Ambiguity is the problem.”

After Frank and Bailey left, Barbara and Shelley sat on the sofa and cross-referenced the names of the people who had stayed late at the party.

“Self-identified, and referenced by one other person,” Barbara said. It didn't take very long. Everyone remembered at least one other person, sometimes several. “Ten altogether,” Barbara said at last. “One zonked out on the couch. Three on the deck, the others by the piano.”

“And none of them who recalls any kind of unusual behavior on David's part, or Jill's,” Shelley added. “Back to the starting gate?”

“Back to the paddock,” Barbara said ruefully. “We've just confirmed what Amy already said. Even if someone besides Robert saw David pass something to Jill, he wouldn't have known it was his key. The problem is that after the newspaper account mentioned that she had his key, recollections could shift to accommodate that, and intimacy was assumed, exactly the way Elders assumed it. That would not be helpful. Who knew about the key back then is the pertinent question. Who passed the tip to the media?”

Hoggarth and his stenographer had come and gone that Wednesday, and David was leaning back on the sofa, obviously tired, but not as weary as he had been just days ago. His strength and his better coloring were both evidence that he was making a more rapid recovery, as if an invisible hurdle had been passed. Hoggarth had been as thorough as he had been previously, covering the same material, both murders, but such an interrogation was tiring for even the healthiest suspect.

“I'd like to order some lunch in, and talk a bit,” Barbara said. “Sandwiches, soup, whatever you want.”

They placed their orders with Maria, and had coffee while they waited for sandwiches to be delivered.

“David, we need to talk about what to expect in the next week or two,” Frank said. “Possibly a charge, arraignment, booking, a hearing for bail bond, and so on. We'll be with you every single step. It's possible that they will charge you with both murders, try Storey's first, hoping for a conviction that will make McCrutchen's a snap. I think they are leaning in that direction from the questions Milt asked.”

“I feel like a Kafka character caught in a nightmare with no waking up possible,” David said. “If it weren't my own neck, it would strike me as a farce, unbelievably stupid.”

“Keep that in mind, David,” Barbara said. “It is your neck. And we'll need all the help we can get to keep that neck intact.”

“Why?” David asked. “They can't have any real evidence. No eyewitnesses. Nothing. Why go after me?”

“I think they'll try to make a case that you and Jill were more than platonic pals, that you were jealous and possessive, and when she tried to pull loose, you struck out at her. That's the only case they can make. The rest of it is prejudice. Your book, your avowed beliefs and, maybe more important, the things you profess not to believe in. How many of our good citizens are admittedly atheists? Ten percent? Fifteen?”

“Thirteen,” he said.

“I'm afraid a general belief is that atheists are inclined to take the law into their own hands, mete out their own punishment when they see fit and scorn the morality that guides everyone else on the straight and narrow path of righteousness.”

David did not argue the point. “I'll be tried for what I believe,” he said. “At least no one gets burned at the stake any longer. Count my blessings.” He shrugged. “Okay, onward. What to expect.”

Impatiently, Barbara shook her head. “Before we get into that, I have to settle something. David, was Jill a lesbian? Just give me a straight answer.”

For what seemed a long time he did not move or speak. “Why do you want to know?” he said at last. “What possible difference can it make?”

“It could save your neck if she was, and if we can establish that as a fact,” Barbara said. “It's a starting place for me. And God knows I need a place to start.”

“Let me tell you something about our past,” David said after another pause. “We were misfits, both of us. From the get-go, misfits. I was a skinny geek, a nerd, a brain, emotionally and physically immature much too long, afraid of girls because they always seemed to know things I couldn't understand. Or they were just mysterious, not like me. I hated competitive sports and wouldn't have been any good at them in any event.

“And she was, too. She was pretty, the prettiest girl in high school, but that didn't help and probably made it worse for her. Wrong clothes, no money, wrong kind of family, lived in the wrong place and too damn smart. Neither of us had any real friends except each other. We read books and talked about them, and even that made us weird.”

He was speaking in a semidetached way, as if thinking out loud, with no particular emphasis on the meaning of his words. He could have been talking about strangers, Barbara thought.

“Anyway, that's the general picture. The summer we were sixteen we were down by a small creek nearby, a place where we had gone to play for most of our lives. She started to cry. Her sister's boyfriend had cornered her and kissed her, and she was frightened by her reaction—nausea, revulsion, self-hatred, hatred for him. It came out that day. She liked girls, and it was terrifying to her, the way she felt about girls. She was terrified that someone would find out. She was desperate to get out of the kind of situation she saw all around her, girls looking for boys, marrying young, babies, poverty, dead-end lives. She was desperate for an education, determined to have a decent life. She was afraid she'd be labeled a deviant, a pervert. She was afraid her father would drive her out, make her live on the streets or something. Remember, we're talking nearly thirty years ago, and she was justified in being afraid. She made me promise never to tell. We made a pact that day. We'd pretend I was her boyfriend, and we'd keep on the way we had been, but the other kids would see us as a
thing,
as the saying goes. I could avoid the girls who were terrifying to me, and she could avoid the guys. Until we hit the university here, we continued to be considered a couple.”