Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Their eyes locked, and Rosen said, “I was in a synagogue.” The room fell into silence for nearly a minute, then he turned to Wilkes. “Tell me about the gun the police found.” He began looking around the room.

  Eyeing Canary, who sat heavily on the bed and looked away, Wilkes answered, “Ballistics has established it was the murder weapon. The serial number had been filed off, but Basehart’s fingerprint is on the barrel.”

  Rosen stepped into the bathroom, returned a minute later and continued to inspect the bedroom. “Traces of heroin in the sink. The woman was an addict?”

  “The autopsy will determine that.”

  “If she was a junkie and a prostitute, she was probably involved with other addicts. Then there’s her pimp. . . .”

  “I can assure you that the police are checking all possible leads.”

  Rosen knelt by the doorway. “Blood. If the Nguyen woman was shot in the heart by the bed, then . . . was Basehart wounded?”

  Wilkes shook his head. He couldn’t believe how quickly the other attorney found and interpreted the evidence. Even Canary adjusted his bulk and turned toward the lawyer.

  Rosen continued, “Then there’s someone else who saw what happened. Either the witness, or maybe the real murderer.”

  Canary lit a cigarette. “We found the murderer. He’s locked up in jail right now.”

  “I assume you dusted for prints.”

  “Yes,” Wilkes said.

  “Checked the stain’s blood type.”

  Canary blew a smoke ring and nodded.

  “Brushed the bedspread.”

  “What?”

  “Checked the bed to see if there were any fibers, hair, semen which might’ve come from someone who slept with her, who might be the murderer.” Rosen said more loudly, “If Basehart is innocent, this evidence could’ve cleared him.”

  Canary shrugged. “Didn’t do that. Guess it’s too late now—half a day since the murder and who knows how many people been sitting on the bed. Hell, now my fibers are all mixed up with the rest of them others. Brush the bed now, might think I slept with the woman and killed her.”

  Rosen barely controlled his anger. “No, Lieutenant, she was shot, not crushed to death.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” Canary struggled to his feet, Wilkes again stepping between the two men. “Get the hell outta here before I break you in two. You hear! Get the hell outta my town!” Wilkes could barely hold him back.

  Collinsby grabbed Rosen. “Come on, Nate, we’d better go.”

  By the time Canary had pushed Wilkes out of the way, the other two attorneys had left.

  “Asshole!” Canary shouted, crushing his cigarette on the floor until there was nothing left. “The next time I see him . . .”

  “Forget it,” Wilkes said. “There’s not much chance that someone like Basehart will accept Mr. Rosen as counsel. Now, you were about to take me to the Nguyens.”

  The policeman lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply several times. “All right. Let’s go. Let’s get this damn circus over with.”

  Next to the bathroom was a door, which Canary opened and led Wilkes into a large workroom. A half-dozen tables were filled with sewing machines, rulers, and rolls of fabric. The stools were inverted on the tabletops while the workers, little men with stooped shoulders, huddled in one of the corners, talking quietly while bringing cups of tea to their lips like a collection of windup toys. Past the tables ran a long counter parallel to the wall. On one side stood two uniformed policemen, while on the other—nearer the wall—were an elderly Vietnamese man and a woman in her mid-twenties, both silent.

  Canary righted a stool and sat down heavily, flipping ash onto the floor, then signaled for the two Vietnamese to join him.

  “Now where were we? Oh, yeah . . . Mr. Nguyen, sorry to bother you again. We’ll be clearing out of here in a few minutes, but I wanted to introduce Mr. Wilkes from the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office. I’m sure he has a few questions for you. This is Mr. Nguyen’s daughter—his other daughter, I mean, Miss”—he referred to his notebook—“now don’t let me get this wrong, Miss Nguyen Thi Trac. Damn if it don’t all sound like something you’d order in a Chinese restaurant. Go ahead, Jimmy, ask your questions. Miss Nguyen can help you with any translation problems, though the old gentleman knows a hellava lot more English than he lets on—ain’t that right? Getting any answers, well, that might be another problem.”

  The old man bowed slightly to Wilkes and avoided his eyes. The workers suddenly stopped their chatter, so that in the entire room the only sound heard was Canary once again flicking ash from his cigarette. Mr. Nguyen wore a clean white shirt outside his trousers; its brightness emphasized his dull pallor and the deep sadness in his eyes. They were pools—those eyes—and Wilkes forced himself to look away before sinking under his own desperation.

  “I . . .” Wilkes began. His throat felt so dry, he coughed and began again. “I’m sorry all this has to be done during your time of grief. I just want you to know that we all want the same thing—justice, to find your daughter’s murderer. As you know, Lt. Canary has arrested a man the police believe is responsible for this terrible crime, but we would certainly welcome any help you might give us. Do you understand all this, sir?”

  The old man nodded. Nothing more.

  “Good. Well . . . do you have in mind any person or persons who might wish to harm your daughter?”

  Mr. Nguyen shook his head.

  “Did you see anyone last night? Hear anything suspicious?”

  A shake of the head. Not far away stood the workmen, one of whom pursed his lips as if the old man’s response had a greater meaning. The other employees also seemed to understand, like the silent communication that is intelligible only to members of the same species. Like ants.

  Wilkes grew impatient. “Mr. Nguyen, if you expect us to be of any help to you. . . .”

  “My father does not expect anything from you.”

  Mr. Nguyen said a few quiet words to his daughter in their native language, and she replied in kind, only with a sharpness that made one of the workers raise his eyebrows. Wilkes hadn’t paid any attention to her before; she was like the other women he had passed earlier in the street—thin with straight black hair framing her narrow eyes. Only now she wasn’t quite like the others. She was taller, reaching his shoulders, and her eyes blazed. It was those eyes, as much as her mouth, that spoke to him.

  “What has happened has happened, and there is nothing you or anyone else can do to change that.” She spoke perfect English with only a trace of an accent.

  “Miss Nguyen, I don’t think you understand. There’s a murderer or murderers whom we’re trying to bring to justice.”

  “No, it is you who do not understand. My father’s only concern is to prepare my sister for her burial and to make certain that her spirit will remain alive. If you would only leave us alone to do that, we would be grateful.”

  Wilkes heard Canary snicker followed by a smoke ring drifting between him and the woman.

  The detective cleared his throat. After another moment’s pause he said to the daughter, “I’m kind of surprised to find you and your daddy so unsociable. After getting to know your brother Van, and he being such a real jaybird when it comes to talking.”

  Mr. Nguyen smiled politely at the mention of his son, but his daughter bristled. “What has he to do with this!”

  “Yeah, Jimmy, you should meet her brother Van, a real credit to the community. Junkie, pusher, why I wouldn’t be surprised if he was pimping for his dead sister. A real go-getter, that boy. Simpson and I met him when we did that big drug investigation. Old Van gave us a name or two and saved his neck that time. I wonder why Van ain’t here. What do you think, Miss Nguyen?”

  She leveled her gaze at the policeman but said nothing. Again the workroom was filled with a silence rigid as glass. Wilkes not only was afraid to speak but even to move, for it was all so unreal, so distant from the early morning and the bust of Jefferson. The oil
smell from the sewing machines mixed in his nostrils with incense from the dead girl’s room and stuck in the back of his throat, so that finally he did cough, cracking the silence into jagged edges.

  The woman winced. “My brother is out with the fishing boats. He lives a few blocks away. He always goes out before dawn and doesn’t know yet about my sister.”

  Rocking as if he were a stuck car, Canary pushed off his stool to stand beside Wilkes. “He ain’t in his dump—we checked it. Out fishing, you say? Now why didn’t I think of that? You sure . . . I mean, you saw him leave? Got up in the middle of the night and packed him a nice peanut butter and rice sandwich for lunch?”

  Her jaw trembled in anger, but she waited a moment to reply. “He always goes fishing early each weekday. That’s his job.”

  Canary dropped his cigarette butt, rubbing his foot back and forth until the butt was welded into the floor. “Yeah, his job. Well, Jimmy, think I’ve had enough of this ring-around-the-rosy. Unless you got any more questions?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Canary signaled the other policemen who followed him back into the dead girl’s room. A minute later Wilkes heard the two police cars drive off, sirens blaring to emphasize their departure.

  For all his contemptible behavior, Canary had been the ballast holding Wilkes to a world of some familiarity—the voice, the uniforms, even the casual cruelty, but now that was gone and he was alone among these strangers who might as well have been Martians with their secret smiles, their way of reaching one another without saying a word, and their infinite patience that left him feeling that he was the real subject under scrutiny. Yet as difficult as it was to remain, it was harder mustering the courage to leave. What should he do—abruptly walk out of the room like Canary? What to say—an apology for disturbing their grief or a stern warning, as they said on television, not to leave town? The old man still smiled politely with his eyes averted, while the workers stood as statues, no one complaining, no one tired of his posture. Wilkes sensed his limbs growing heavy, the sweat forming ice-cold on his forehead, and the silence buzzing in his ears until he felt they would burst.

  “The men can return to work?”

  Wilkes blinked, forcing a hand to rub his eyes.

  “Is it all right for them to return to work?” the old man’s daughter asked again.

  He nodded, and as if the mechanism of some great toy had been activated, the old man turned and shuffled back to the counter as his workmen each took a spot at a table to measure or cut or sew; even the bell above the entranceway tinkled to announce a customer’s arrival. For a moment the activity let Wilkes believe that all along he had been merely an observer and not a player, until he saw the old man’s daughter staring at him. Pretending not to notice, Wilkes turned to leave and, in doing so, glimpsed the woman begin to cry. So, he thought—not daring to look a second time—they are, after all, just like everyone else.

  Chapter Four – TUESDAY MORNING

  Walking from the coffee shop, Rosen paused to pull his shirt collar tight around the back of his neck. Yesterday’s gray mist still clung to the town like an old drunk afraid to go home. Rosen felt a little afraid too. He always did in a new place on a new job, wondering what the people there were really like. An old man walked by and smiled hello; wasn’t he the same person who had been so friendly on the bus?

  It was better than most, Rosen supposed—this Musket Shoals with its magnolia trees, antiques shops, and street names well over a hundred years old. He could respect a place with a sense of history, like a tree with deep roots. It took a creeping vine like himself to respect such a place. Yes, he liked it despite Landon the blinking cop, Lt. Canary, and the prospect of having to defend a racist bigot. And so he smiled back at the old man, wanting to believe with all his heart what God had told him as a boy—that man was by nature good. Despite the fact that nearly every day, his work told him the opposite.

  Lester Collinsby pulled up across the street in front of the hotel, just as the clock on the corner bank struck ten. He was right on time.

  “Morning,” Collinsby said. “Jimmy Wilkes is meeting us at the jail. He’s going to introduce you to Basehart. Just don’t get your hopes up about Edison accepting you as co-counsel. C’mon, hop in.”

  “Wait a minute, Lester. Let me take in this work of art.”

  Collinsby was driving a two-year-old Jaguar, fire-engine red, that shone as if it had just come from the showroom. After strolling around the car, Rosen slid into the passenger seat and inhaled the smell of real leather as one would a fine cigar. Chuckling, Collinsby shifted gears, and the Jag glided into traffic, quickly distancing itself from the hotel.

  Seeing Lester behind the wheel was like seeing him for the first time. There was a gold watch, a gold ring, and probably a gold chain around his neck, all looking like they belonged on a golden boy like Collinsby. Only the limp didn’t.

  “Looks like you’re doing O.K.,” Rosen said.

  Collinsby smiled. “Yeah, guess so. Heck, I’m not the greatest lawyer in the world or even in the county for that matter, but people around here have been good to me.”

  “You said yesterday that you played football.”

  “Guess it’s kind of hard to hide when you’re as big and clumsy as I am. Yeah, I was pretty good in my day—no John Riggins, but I had a shot at the pros. Busted my knee in college.”

  “Must’ve been tough.”

  “When the doctors told me, I felt like blowing out my brains. But I didn’t, and it passed. Like I said before, people in this town didn’t desert me. They helped me back on my feet. I’ve gone through two wives and three houses, everything I guess America is about. You can make it through just about anything if you have somebody to count on. Know what I mean?”

  Rosen looked away. After a moment he said, “What can you tell me about the case? I’ve read both local papers, but that’s it.”

  “There’s not a whole lot more I can tell you. The police report’s on the back seat . . . here.”

  Rosen scanned the file. “The murder weapon’s a problem?”

  “His fingerprint’s on the gun, all right. As for the weapon itself—a throwaway, one of those Saturday night specials. The police have confiscated a ton of guns like the murder weapon from Basehart’s organization, the Klan, and even some Nazi group over in the next town. It’s that fingerprint, the paraffin test, plus all the hate literature. His group’s even been suspected of a couple firebombings of Vietnamese stores during the past few weeks.”

  Rosen shook his head. “What about the dead woman?”

  “What about her?”

  “The police report lists her occupation as a prostitute. We know that drugs were found in her apartment. Maybe the shooting was by somebody else—a dissatisfied customer, a pusher, or a junkie. What about her brother?”

  “Still missing. He didn’t go fishing—the police checked. I hate to say it, but Basehart doesn’t stand much of a chance. Bet I can work out a pretty good deal with Jimmy Wilkes, the fella you met yesterday with Canary—Jimmy’s the Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney handling the case. We went to school together. He doesn’t have too much experience in criminal trial and won’t be especially anxious to take this one to court. Anyways, I never met a prosecutor who wasn’t interested in saving himself time and the state some money.”

  “Don’t be offended, Lester, but do you think any pressure might be put on this Jimmy Wilkes by some of these cockroaches in white sheets crawling out of the woodwork? I mean, how sympathetic are the people around here to Basehart and his group?”

  “I’m not offended, Nate. Maybe a little tired of hearing that kind of talk, that’s all. I’ll just chalk it up to you being a Northern boy. This isn’t the Sixties; people don’t go gunning down civil rights workers anymore. Sure we’ve got our share of Baseharts. Times are bad for some, and people are always looking for someone else to blame; that’s just human nature. From what I’ve read, you’ve got the same trouble up North, maybe worse. Folks aroun
d here are good people—I already told you that. Wait’ll you get to know Jimmy. You’ll think you’re talking to Thomas Jefferson himself. Here’s the courthouse.”

  The two attorneys checked in with the desk sergeant, then walked down the long gray corridor, where afternoon suddenly gave way to the dim glow of lamplight. Rosen looked around and said, “Nice place, early Kafka,” then the men continued in silence. In the gray loneliness just before they reached the door, Sarah flashed before Rosen’s eyes, the image of his daughter as he had last seen her, a pink ribbon in her jet black hair and below the newly cut bangs her dark eyes looking softly up at him. Two months ago he had gone home to Chicago for vacation. On his last day they went to a Cubs game, and she had been as giggly as he supposed any twelve year old was, until he brought her home and she sat at the piano. It was her big surprise, to have spent two months learning to play “Lulu’s Back in Town” choppy, the way Thelonius Monk played the tune, because he loved it so. It had driven her mother and her piano teacher crazy, she said. How Sarah played it, and how she looked at him after finishing, melting his heart and almost bringing him to make peace with God. When the door opened to the interrogation room, Rosen followed Collinsby inside with the same gentle steps he had, as a boy, followed his father into shul.

  The room was small with steel-gray walls and, below a fixture caked with dust, Jimmy Wilkes sat in one of the four wooden chairs surrounding a small square table. The fixture lighted a tight circle barely reaching the walls, so that the edges of the room remained in shadow, and at first Rosen didn’t notice a stenographer adjusting her machine in the corner.

  Wilkes and Collinsby shook hands. “Hi, Jimmy. You remember Nate Rosen of the . . . what’s that group, Nate?”

  Wilkes said, “The Committee to Defend the Constitution. Of course I remember. Nice to see you again, Mr. Rosen. I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk about Mr. Jefferson and the Bill of Rights. I am sorry about yesterday. Lt. Canary’s a good police officer. He’s lived and worked through some pretty rough times. Hard for some people to forget those days.”