Authors: Collin Wilcox
“A Miata?”
Promptly, Taylor nodded. “Right. A Miata.”
“All right. Good.” As he said it, Hastings heard the sound of an engine coming up the hill, and voices slightly raised. The coroners had arrived. Or the lab crew. Or both.
“So what happened then?” Hastings asked. “After you took the garbage out, and you saw the victim walking across the street toward you, what happened? Did you speak? Nod?”
“No. We didn’t—that wouldn’t—I mean, we weren’t really acquainted, you understand. I’d just noticed him, that’s all.”
“What happened next?” Mindful of the personnel on the street below waiting for his orders, Hastings spoke briskly.
“Well, I—after I saw him, like I said, I went back inside the garage, for the clippings. I got them, one in each hand, and I was trying to get both bags out, between my car and the bikes that the goddam neighbors leave in the garage, when I heard the shots.”
“How many shots?”
“There were three. One, and then a slight pause, and then two more.”
“What’d you do when you heard the shots?”
“Well, I—” Taylor drained his glass, then waved a hand in a short, delicate arc. “Well, I—I just continued, just took the bags out. I—at the time, you see, I didn’t think they were shots. I thought it was a car backfiring. So when I finally got the trash bags around the bikes, I took them outside and stacked them beside the garbage can. And then, God, I saw him. It was—I can’t tell you—it was horrible. Just horrible. I’ll have nightmares. I—” He shuddered. “I
know
I’ll have nightmares.”
“What about the assailant? Did you see him?”
“Well, I—I guess so. I mean, there was someone walking away, down the hill.”
“Did you get a look at him, at his face?”
“No. His back was to me.”
“Was he running?”
“No. Walking.” As if he were baffled, Taylor shook his head. “Just walking, down to Hyde Street.”
“How was he dressed?”
Taylor frowned. “Just—you know—just a jacket, it looked like. A windbreaker. And slacks.” He eyed Hastings. “Pretty much like you’re dressed, I’d say.”
“Bareheaded?”
Another frown. “No. I think he had a hat. Or rather a cap. Maybe it had a visor, but I’m not sure. I mean, there’s not much light, you know. These streetlights, they’re not much, on this block. We’re supposed to be getting sodium-vapor streetlights. But some people think they’re too bright, too garish. Not me, though. I always wanted the new lights. And this proves I was right. I mean—” He drew a deep, ragged breath. “I mean, if there’d been more light, this might not’ve happened.”
“What about a gun?” As he spoke, Hastings rose to his feet. Down on the street, men were waiting. City employees, some on time and a half. “Did you see a gun?”
Decisively, Taylor shook his head. “No. No gun. God, if I’d seen a gun …” Shuddering, he gently stroked the side of his face with an unsteady hand, as if to comfort himself.
“What about the victim? You went to him, I understand. Did he say anything to you?”
“God, no. He—he was past that. All he was doing was twitching. His hands, and his feet too, they were—” As if the memory of the moment had numbed him, Taylor suddenly broke off. Hastings rose, thanked him, and quietly left the apartment. Before he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard Taylor bolting the door.
12:10
AM
As Hastings walked toward the body, he saw Canelli and the pizza deliveryman standing together beside the deliveryman’s car. Hastings beckoned and waited for Canelli to join him.
“So how’d it go?” Hastings asked. “Is he cooperating?”
“Yeah.” Canelli nodded. “He’s an eager beaver. You know, a cop fan. He’s only nineteen. Nice kid.”
“Okay …”Hastings gestured to the body. “You get the techs started, your responsibility. Clear?”
Canelli lifted his chin, squared his shoulders. This, he knew, was a significant moment. “Yessir, that’s clear. Thank you.”
Hastings pointed to the building across the street. “I’m going over there, see what I can find out.”
“Yeah.” Canelli nodded. “Sheppard—the pizza guy—he said it looked like the victim came from there, one of those buildings across the street. But he couldn’t see which building, not from his angle.”
“I know which one it is.” Hastings looked at the victim and at the waiting technicians. “You get things going here. Tell Bruce Taylor and the pizza guy to stay available. You know, the usual.”
“Shall I do the whole thing?” Canelli asked. “Sign the body off? Everything?” He spoke hesitantly; his soft brown eyes were hopeful. It had been months since Hastings had let him do it all: supervise the technicians, consult with the medical examiner, decide when the body could be moved, conduct a search of the victim’s person, finally sign off the body for release to the coroner for autopsy. If the job wasn’t done properly—the whole job, down to the most minute detail—then the vital first link in the chain of evidence would be compromised. And, always, it was that link that the defense lawyers tested first.
“Yeah,” Hastings said. “Go ahead.” He gestured to the building across the street. “I’ll be over there. At eleven-forty-eight.”
12:20
AM
As she watched, she was aware that her perceptions had skewed. After two hours, frozen here at this window, helpless, the scene had become surreal, a manic animation of flashing lights, official vans and station wagons, police cars, the monotonous, monosyllabic sputter of the police radios, the eerily immobile figures simply standing there, waiting for the ritual to begin, inscrutably alert for their subliminal cues. All of it centering on the figure lying dead on the cold concrete sidewalk—the figure none of them looked at directly.
They were waiting. Watching. Expecting some secret signal, some significant presence, some nameless, faceless authority—the same presence that she awaited.
All of it focused on the inert shape illuminated by two floodlights that had just been set up, each one on its own tripod, shades of a Hollywood set.
Brice.
Dead.
Three hours ago, they’d made love: a complex, urgent, intense coupling, herself receiving him, her essence enveloping his essence. Lovers. Antagonists. Explorers of sensation’s limits, rivals for the prize.
And now he was an amorphous shape lying on the sidewalk. In the two hours of her vigil, the shape had become flat on the bottom, as if Brice’s clothing covered a gelatinous sack of thick, viscous liquid that resembled a …
One of the plainclothesmen—the tall, muscular one with a large golden badge pinned to his poplin jacket—was coming down the staircase of the building across the street. She saw him walk toward the other plainclothesman. The second detective was a large, lumpy man with a swarthy face, whose manner marked him a subordinate. Now the two detectives were talking together, the swarthy one nodding anxiously, the first detective gesticulating, obviously giving orders. The first detective was bareheaded. His hair was thick and dark, his manner calm, self-sufficient.
Now, suddenly, the tall detective turned, raised his head, looked directly toward her.
Then, yes, he began crossing the street. Standing now on the sidewalk directly beneath her window, he was looking up at her, his head tilted. The moment held; a confirmation passed between them. Then, a measured greeting; he nodded. Gravely she returned the greeting. Then she turned away from the window, walked out into the hallway, stood at the head of the stairs. Waited. When the buzzer sounded, she pressed the button in return. He came in, closed the door, carefully tested it. Then: “I’m Lieutenant Hastings. Homicide. I understand you can help us.” Looking up at her, he gestured behind him, toward the street. Toward Brice—the viscous, gelatinous husk of Brice.
“Yes. I—I guess I can. Come up.”
“Thanks.”
She stepped back from the upstairs landing, waited for him to join her. Then: “I’m Carla Pfiefer.”
“How do you do.” The detective looked expectantly through the living room doorway. “Can we—?”
“Yes. Certainly.” Conscious of an overwhelming weariness, a sudden heaviness of her legs, she led him into the living room. Choosing a chair that let her keep her back to the street, she gestured for him to sit facing her. As she waited for him to speak, she could hear the continuing mutter of the police radios.
With a small spiral-bound notebook opened expectantly on his knee, ballpoint pen poised, Hastings said, “I understand that you know the—the victim.”
“Yes, I knew him.” As she said it, she could see satisfaction registering on the detective’s face. Seen up close, he was an attractive man: a squared-off face, a generous mouth, thick brown hair graying at the temples, calm brown eyes. His voice, too, was calm: “What’s his name?”
“His name is—” Her voice caught. God, this was where it started. Here. Now. With her very next words: “His name was Hanchett. Brice Hanchett.”
“He was a friend of yours.” It was a statement, not a question. The neighbors, then, had been talking. Always, it was the neighbors.
“He was with you tonight.” Another flat, calm statement. He knew his business, this quiet-spoken detective. Behind his words, she could sense the ponderous weight of the law. He ordered, the others obeyed. Now she knew why.
“Yes …” Aware that it was a reluctant admission, aware that he could hear the reluctance in her voice, she nodded. “Yes, he was with me tonight.”
He nodded in return, let a beat pass. Then, pen poised, he said, “What I’d like you to do is give me a rundown on Mr. Hanchett. Everything.”
For this question, she was ready. For this, during the past two hours, standing at the window, looking down, she had prepared herself.
“It’s—actually, it’s
Doctor
Hanchett. He works—worked—at the Barrington Medical Center. He’s—was—very well known. Famous, I guess you’d say. At least in medical circles.”
As she’d expected, his face remained impassive, his voice noncommittal. “Famous in what way?”
“Well, he—he was a surgeon. A very good, very successful surgeon. He was head of surgery, in fact, at BMC.”
“Ah …” Hastings was nodding. “Yes. Thank you.” Then, still the flat-voiced inquisitor: “You were … friends?”
This time it was a question. Not a statement, but a question.
“Yes … friends.” She drew a long, deep breath. “My, ah—my husband works at BMC, in fact. He’s a surgeon, too. A neurosurgeon.”
“Your husband …” As he said it, Hastings circled the room with a perceptive, inquisitive gaze. Then, inquiringly, he turned his dark eyes directly on her. The message: she didn’t fit his image of a married woman. Neither did the flat, or its furnishings.
“Hmm …” Speculatively, he cocked his head. It was an appealing gesture. What would he be like in bed, this strong, silent policeman?
Holding his eye, she spoke quietly. “We’re separated.”
“So? …”He raised one hand, a gesture that matched the inquiry in the monosyllable. The unspoken question was clear: Had she and Brice Hanchett been lovers?
If she denied it, he would continue probing. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in the one-word question. The thought—the certainty of policemen probing the secret recesses of her life—it was an obscenity. Requiring that she meet his gaze squarely. Then requiring that she speak firmly, disdainful of his questions, contemptuous of his policeman’s petty insinuations.
“If you’re going to ask whether we were lovers, Brice and I, the answer is yes. I’m separated from my husband, as I said. And Brice—well, you’ll have to speak to his wife, I guess.”
Surprisingly, the detective smiled—a small, noncommittal smile but, nevertheless, a smile. “You come right out with it.” Approvingly, he nodded. “Good.”
She lifted her chin, sat straighter in her chair. The worst was over. Until the next wave of horror overtook her, probably when she was in bed—the bed they’d shared, a few hours ago—the worst was over. “I don’t have anything to hide, Lieutenant.”
“I didn’t think you did, Mrs. Pfiefer.”
They sat silently for a moment, eyeing each other. Her expression, she could feel, was holding: a silent challenge. His expression, too, was holding: implacable but respectful.
Was that the word? Respectful?
Now he pointed to the window. “You have a direct view of the street. Did you see it happen?”
“No. I was in the bedroom, in back. The bedroom, and the bathroom.”
“Did you hear the shots?”
“Yes.”
“How many shots did you hear?”
“There were three. First one, then two more.” As she said it, she saw him nod. It had been the right answer, then. Why did she feel so pleased, seeing him nod?
“What’d you do when you heard the shots?”
“Well, I—as I said, I was—” A momentary pause, a single defiant beat. Then: “I was using the bathroom. So, afterwards, I put something on. Then I went to the front of the apartment, to the window. And then—” Suddenly her throat closed, a sharp, sudden spasm. “Then I—I saw him. He was—” She couldn’t finish it. She could only shake her head mutely. Perhaps to give her time, Hastings was rising, crossing to the window, looking down. Then he returned to his chair, saying, “He’s lying across the street, and the light isn’t very good. How could you be sure it was him?”
“I knew. I just
knew.”
Was she talking loudly? Too loudly? Too insistently?
“You knew? How?”
“Well, he—he’d just left, for one thing. And his car was still there, across the street. I—I think that’s how I knew, how I was sure. Because of the car.”
“Did you take any action? Call the police? Call nine-one-one?
“No, I—I didn’t. I—I couldn’t seem to think.”
He nodded. “That’s understandable. You were …” He paused, searching for the word. “You were close, the two of you.”
“Yes—close.” Somehow she suddenly felt ridiculous, repeating the single word
close.
Was that all there was to say? Lovers—passionate lovers—for three months. All reduced to
close.
“After the first policeman arrived, though, you talked to him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you go downstairs and talk to him? Or did he come up here?”
“I went down. I—I thought I should help. Tell them his name, tell them about the car.”