The Sign of the Book (4 page)

“Well, if you'd let me finish my answer… I didn't exactly take her temperature, I had a dead man on the floor, but she looked to be in some kind of deep sweat.”

“Or had been outside. You've already testified about the weather, that it was raining, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where were Mrs. Marshall's children when all this happened?”

“When I got there they were asleep in one of the bedrooms.”

“They had slept right on through this, is that what you're saying?”

“They were taking a nap when I arrived, that's all I know.”

“Did you question them at all about what had happened?”

“No, sir. The oldest one, you know, he can't talk. And the other two… I didn't want to disturb them, they're so young. At that point I had Mrs. Marshall's statement that she had shot her husband, so why upset the kids?”

“What did you do with them?”

“Got 'em back to town and called Social Services. Standard procedure. They have a family in Paradise who took 'em in till they made other arrangements.”

“Which were what?”

“My understanding is that the grandparents came out a few days later to take care of them.”

“The deceased's parents.”

“Yes. They've rented a place out on Waters Road.”

McNamara cleared his throat and asked his next question almost reluctantly, I thought. “When did you call the coroner, Deputy?”

“As soon as I had secured the scene and made sure there was no further danger.”

“Which was approximately how long after you got to the house?”

“No more than a few minutes. Ten minutes at the outside.”

“Where'd you make this call?”

“On my car radio.”

“You didn't use the phone in the house?”

“No way. I didn't want to touch things in there.”

“And the coroner's office has a radio that's monitored constantly, is that right?”

“I can't say about that.”

“Did you ever get through to him?”

“No, sir.”

It turned out that the county had never had a full-time coroner—a local undertaker named Lew Tatters had served in that capacity for forty years—and aside from the occasional auto accident and a few deaths by natural causes, he had had little to do. He had arrived about three hours later, Walsh said, had taken photographs and examined the body. McNamara looked over at an old man sitting behind the prosecution table and I thought I saw a look of regret pass between them. They knew each other well, that's how I read it; they might even be old fishing buddies, and now McNamara had to put his friend in a hot seat.

“Isn't the coroner supposed to be on call around the clock?”

“Yes, sir. Somebody's supposed to know where he is.”

“But nobody did.”

“His wife said she could find him.”

“But that took a while.”

“About three hours, like I said.”

“You don't know exactly?”

“Not exactly, no. I didn't make a note of when he came.”

“And what did you do with the defendant all that time?”

“Took her down to the jail.”

“You left the scene unattended and took her down to the jail.”

“Sometimes you gotta make a judgment call. I didn't want to leave the house but she looked like she might be going into shock.”

“So you secured the house…”

“Ran tape around the doors and locked it up.”

“With Mrs. Marshall's key.”

“That's right. Listen, I know better than to leave the house. But sometimes—”

“You gotta make a judgment call,” McNamara said dryly.

They looked at each other for a long ten seconds. “That's all for now,” McNamara said.

This was followed by technical testimony. The coroner was called and McNamara asked him a few soft questions. He had gone on an errand for his wife, who had been feeling ill, but it had taken the drugstore longer than expected to fill her prescription. Then he had met some old pals and they had visited for a few minutes… not long, but by the time he did arrive at the house there was no way he could pinpoint a time of death. He had no rectal thermometer and no means of measuring the victim's liver temperature. Lividity was present and rigor mortis had begun. The body had cooled and was no longer warm to the touch. “Could you have been longer than three hours?” McNamara asked, and the undertaker allowed that he might have been as much as an hour more than that.

The DA had had the body shipped to Montrose for autopsy. There, a forensic pathologist had chopped it to pieces and now offered his opinion on the time of death, probably between 1 and 3
P
.
M
. But this was a guess, he said, subject to a wide margin of error. The coroner fidgeted—he should have done more. A CBI agent, who had examined a .38 revolver and the bullets, gave testimony on that, on Mrs. Marshall's dress, and the fingerprints on the gun. The prints belonged to the defendant and the blood to the victim. The gun was established as the victim's. Lots of detail, little to challenge. At the end of it, the judge said there was probable cause to believe that a murder had been committed and that the defendant had done it. “The defendant is remanded to the custody of the sheriff, and the arraignment will be next Thursday at one-thirty.” McNamara said, “Your Honor, I'm gonna move for bail, and I'd like to have that hearing at the arraignment if possible.” The judge nodded inconclusively, got up, and walked out. I watched the deputy lead Laura Marshall out through the side door, and I sat there till the crowd thinned out.

At a pay phone outside the courthouse I called Erin's office in Denver. She was in court and unavailable till tomorrow. I called her home phone and left a message on her machine, a succinct report of what had happened. I stood in the cold for a moment, thinking it over. Deputy Walsh came out of the sheriff's office, lit up a smoke, and stared at me across the lot. I took a deep breath and headed his way.

He blew a smoke ring as I approached. I walked past him, close enough to reach out and knock him on his ass. This, in a masterpiece of restraint, I did not do. His smoke swirled around us. I pushed my way through it, went into the office, and worked my way around an old man sweeping the floor. He looked like Walter Brennan in his later years, with a gap-toothed face and a name,
FREEMAN
, sewn across the pocket of his coveralls. Across the way a woman in her sixties sat at a desk, writing in what looked like a ledger. She gave me a pleasant smile, the first decent thing that had happened since I'd arrived in this one-horse town.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

“I'd like to see Laura Marshall and her lawyer, please.”

“Are you connected with her case?”

“Not yet. I represent the Denver attorney she has asked for advice.”

She got on an intercom and talked to a Sheriff Gains. A moment later a stocky, gray man of about fifty years came out from a back office. He didn't look friendly or unfriendly. He did look formidable, far more a presence than his underling, who was still outside, smoking.

“You want to see Laura?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She's up in the conference room with her lawyer right now.”

“If you would tell them I'm here, I'd like to see them both.”

He took my name and disappeared up a circular flight of stairs. At the same moment Deputy Walsh came in, reeking of smoke and wearing his attitude like a battering ram. I looked at him and gave him a smile, not a friendly one, and he said, “What the hell're you looking at, cowboy?” I saw the receptionist frown, but Walsh didn't seem to care what she thought. By then he had pushed one button too many and I said, “I don't know what I'm looking at, Deputy. Based on our short mutual experience, I'd guess a crummy little pissant with a badge.”

He came straight up, as if I'd just shoved a hot steel poker up his ass. I looked at the lady and apologized for the tone of my voice, but to Walsh I said, “Just so you know, Lennie, that cute little business with the ticket has been recorded and sent off to Denver with a copy of the ticket and my notes. I'll pay my fine and give you that one, just to show my goodwill and stuff. But if you try anything like that again, I'll have a team of state investigators all over this office. By the time they get through with you, you'll be lucky if the sheriff lets you pick up his lunch at the Main Street café.”

“Oh, you're
really
asking for it.”

“Yes, I am,” I agreed earnestly.

There was a bump at that moment from the top of the stairs. “Come on up,” the sheriff called. Deputy Walsh moved to escort me but I turned to him and said, “I think I can find the top of the staircase.”

“Don't tell me how to do my job.”

“Somebody needs to.”

Before he could react to that, I said, “I'll tell you one more time, Walsh, stay away from me.” He stood his ground and the woman at the desk saw and heard it all.

I went up alone.

Upstairs, the sheriff led me along a corridor, past what I figured was the jail, and down to an oblong conference room at the end. He opened the door and backed away diplomatically, leaving the three of us alone. “Take whatever time you need,” he said. “Press the buzzer near the door when you're through.”

The door locked behind him.

The room was airy and white. Laura Marshall was sitting at the end of the table. McNamara had been in the chair to her immediate left, and now he stood as I came across the room and we shook hands. He looked to be around seventy but his hand was firm and strong. He introduced me to Mrs. Marshall and I shook her hand, which felt fragile and cool in mine. They motioned me to the chair on Laura's right and the two of them sat expectantly, waiting for me to speak. I said, “Erin sent me,” an unnecessary opening since they both knew who had sent me, but I hoped it would get the ice broken. Instead, Laura shivered, covered her face, and wept quietly into her hands.

McNamara looked at me and shrugged. His look said,
Maybe somebody could tell me what's going on,
but I returned his shrug and left it to Mrs. Marshall to tell us. She had now turned away from us, facing the barred window. We could see she was still crying, and it took a while for her to get her control back.

“Laura?” the old man said. “Are you okay now?”

She nodded, but she didn't look okay. Tears welled up again; she said, “I'm sorry,” and turned away.

“It's okay,” I said. “I've got plenty of time.”

I gave the lawyer a questioning look and he nodded. “The sheriff's all right with it. Like he said, he'll let us have whatever we need. He's a decent guy.”

“His deputy sure is a piece of work,” I said, and McNamara rolled his eyes.

After a while Mrs. Marshall got herself together. I didn't know how long that might last, so I plunged right in. “I guess we need to know what happened. Where you were when it happened. Your version of that Monday's events.”

“Just a minute there,” McNamara said. “I don't want her answering that question yet.”

I said, “Why not?” but I knew just enough law to be dangerous and I could see why not. He didn't want me to know too much, not yet: he didn't want to be limited in what defenses he might mount on her behalf. As an officer of the court, he couldn't use any defense that he knew to be based on false or misleading information. Sometimes it's better not to know. “Let's just leave it at that for now,” he said.

But suddenly it was a moot point. Laura reached over and touched the old man's hand. He shook his head as if he had just read her mind but couldn't stop her. “I shot him,” she said. She looked at the floor. “I shot Bobby.”

She took a deep breath, as if she was relieved at getting it said.

“I did it,” she said, stronger now. “I killed him.”

McNamara said, “Oh, Jesus,” got up, walked away from the table, and stood looking down into the yard. Laura and I sat quietly, each waiting for the other to say something. “I got the gun out of his room and I waited for him to come home,” she said after a long time. “When he did, I shot him.”

“Why'd you do it?”

McNamara turned away from the window with
objection
written all over his face. He settled instead for a slight headshake, then he turned back again.

“Mrs. Marshall?”

She blinked as if she had lost her train of thought.

“Why?” I asked again.

“Does it matter?”

“It sure can.”

“I'm just… I don't know… if I have any defense.”

“You're not in the best position to know that. As I think your lawyer will tell you.”

A long moment passed. I said, “Why'd you ask your lawyer to call Erin?” and she teared up again.

“Oh, God,” she said to the wall. “I must've been out of my mind.”

“Well, at least you may have a defense there.”

“Not when I shot Bobby. I was very clearheaded then. I'm talking about later, when I asked Mr. McNamara to call Erin.”

McNamara turned growling from the window. “Laura, for God's sake, you're making this worse every time you open your mouth.”

She didn't seem to hear him. “I guess I just wanted to see her again.”

Another stretch of time danced away.

“Did she tell you?” she asked. “About us?”

“Some. She's not exactly a fountain of information about it.”

“No, I don't imagine she is.”

“Neither are you, so far.”

McNamara moved around the table, into her line of vision. “Laura, have you heard anything I've been telling you? Did you understand it when I explained what the defenses to murder are, and what limitations are put on each? Are you deliberately trying to put a noose around your own neck?”

She shook her head. “Of course not.”

But then she said, “I just don't think it matters much.”

McNamara bristled. “What are we gonna do with her, Mr. Janeway? You see how she is?”

“Mrs. Marshall,” I said softly, “you really should listen to your lawyer.”

“What does that mean?” she said. “Are you walking out?”

“No,” I said. “Just don't tell me anything yet that might get pried out of me and used against you on the witness stand. Erin is not your lawyer, I'm not sure this is privileged information.”

“I want you to stay.”

“In that case maybe I should leave,” McNamara said.

She and I said, “Don't,” at the same time.

“Stay,” I said. “At least long enough to tell her what her risks are.”

“What good will that do if she doesn't listen to my advice?”

But Laura said, “Please,” and he sat in his chair and watched us.

“Mrs. Marshall, why do you want Erin to represent you?”

“I want to see her again.”

McNamara leaned over the table and made an imploring gesture. “Laura, you can't pick your lawyer for something like this on the basis of a childhood friendship! Mr. Janeway, please! Get her to use her head.”

“He's right,” I said to Laura.

To both of them I said, “Erin is a very good lawyer. You'd be in good hands. But at this point I'm not even sure she'll do this. I'm not sure she can, legally.”

“What's that about?” McNamara said.

“There'd be a conflict of interest. Ms. D'Angelo was once involved with the deceased.” I gave McNamara a knowing look, hoping he would pick it up.

“Before we were married, Bobby and I had an affair,” Laura said. “He had been Erin's… but that's private business. Surely a judge can't dictate who will represent me.”

“Mr. Janeway is right,” McNamara said. “It's a potential conflict of interest.”

“Is that some insurmountable thing?”

“You may have to sign a waiver saying you understand it and want her anyway.”

“Then I will. I've got to talk to her. I've got to tell her…”

“Tell her what, Mrs. Marshall?” I said.

“How sorry I am.”

“I'll tell her that.”

“You can't possibly, there's too much between us.”

“Then I'll tell her that.”

“And what then? Will she come?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea what that lady will do from one day to the next.”

“I still love her.”

We talked about her childhood with Erin. They had lived as next-door neighbors when they were very young kids; they had always been such great friends. “We were so different, and yet there was a kinship between us that I've never known with anyone else. We never had a cross word, not once that I can remember.”

A few minutes later, Laura said, “Does she ever talk about me? Those old days?”

“She hasn't yet, not to me.”

“So where are we now in the scheme of things?” McNamara said.

“I'd like to go up and see the house,” I said. “Erin wants me to look at your books, assuming the sheriff is finished up there.”

“Sheriff's been done at least ten days,” McNamara said. “I'd better tell him you're going, though, and you'd better have someone with you. I'll go along if you want.”

“That's very generous, Mr. McNamara. I'd appreciate it.”

We pressed the buzzer and a moment later the sheriff came and let us out. Across the street I made another call to Erin and was surprised to find her in the office. “Our judge is entertaining some motions,” she said. “We may go back this afternoon, we may not. What's happening out there?”

I gave her a report. At the end of it, she said, “Not much doubt she did this?”

“She's not denying it. And the evidence looks pretty strong.”

“Well, then…”

“Well then what?”

“Come on home.”

“Erin…”

“Yes? Is something wrong?”

“She wants to see you.”

“What for?”

“That's between you and her. As far as her case goes, it seems pretty open-and-shut. There may be extenuating circumstances and I think what she mainly needs is advice on how to plead. The old man who's handling her seems to be pretty competent. He's cautious damn near to a fault.”

“Sounds like she's well represented.”

“I don't know…”

“What don't you know?” There was a pause, then she said, “Come on home.”

“I'd like to stay another day. I haven't even seen her books yet.”

I listened to the phone static between us. Abruptly Erin said, “They're calling us back, I've got to go. Tell her I'll send her some names of lawyers in her neck of the woods.”

I said nothing for a moment. Erin said, “Don't waste any more time, Cliff. You said it yourself, the books probably don't matter. Look, I've gotta go.”

She hung up and I stood there looking out toward Main Street. Deputy Walsh came out and lit a cigarette and we stared at each other like two old gunfighters in a bad cowboy flick. It would be so easy to pack it in: take my fee, which I knew Erin would make generous, and forget about Laura Marshall and her tragedy. For the moment it would also be damned near impossible.