Bliss

by Gordon Phillips

  I looked at the big man, who was looking as beautiful as he had that first afternoon. “And with friends, too,” I said, nodding at him.

  Horst blushed.

  “I think he was careful with choosing his friends. He never opened up to me, but I think he’d been burned once or twice.”

  I nodded, and then gestured to the room at large. “But what did you think of Quentin’s taste?”

  After a quick glance around, he shrugged. “It’s nice.”

  And that, I thought, is the extent of Horst’s aesthetic appreciation. Then I chided myself. Everyone has different taste. And besides, Horst brings his own beauty with him.

  He did, too. And right now, with his walls almost entirely down, I found just looking at the big man a treat, and had to keep myself from staring. Actually, it was enjoyable just being in the same room with him.

  When we had finished our drinks, he took me on a tour of the condo. I was struck not just with how tidy everything was—like something out of Architectural Digest—but how clean it was too. I mentioned this, and Horst chuckled.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I was kinda the housekeeper. I cleaned, among other things.” He shrugged. “I like doing that. And Quentin gave me a really good rent, so I liked keeping things nice for him.”

  I nodded, but I thought about Detective Solomon not having said anything about fingerprints. Perhaps it was a lack of them had kept him from charging Horst. And, given what the big man had just admitted to me, it made me feel a little uneasy. It didn’t look good.

  “Did you clean all of the rooms? Even Ted’s bedroom?”

  “Oh, yes. That was a condition of Ted living here.”

  Down the hallway, the first door on the left was an exercise room, with mats, barbells, and several exercise machines. And full-length mirrors along one wall. And everything in it was neat as a pin.

  The second door on the left was Ted’s bedroom, which showed nothing special. I asked Horst what Ted’s relationship with Quentin had been. He said he didn’t know and repeated his earlier observation that Ted only stayed there now and then, sometimes bringing a friend or two back for fun.

  “Sometimes it got a bit noisy, but he kept it to his room mostly.”

  “Noisy?”

  “He called them parties. Quentin tended to be out those nights.”

  “Why in his bedroom?” I asked. “Did they do drugs or something?”

  He hesitated, perhaps thinking he shouldn’t share certain information with someone who had been a cop. Then he shrugged, and opened the closet. To one side were some clothes, but on the other there were a half-dozen large gas cylinders, standing on end. And above, on a shelf, to the right of a pile of folded clothing, were a number of boxes, several open, filled with medical gas masks—the kind that fit around the mouth and over the nose—and several loops of tubing. There was also a brass appliance that looked like it screwed onto the thread on the top of the gas cylinders.

  “They were oxygen parties,” Horst explained.

  “What are those?”

  He shrugged. “It’s supposed to give you a kind of high.” He chuckled. “Quentin sometimes referred to him as Ted’s oxygen orgies.”

  “Really! Were they orgies?”

  Horst shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes it was just Ted and a single guest. I saw the same people, coming and going, crossing to the washroom. I kept to my room when he had people over. Like I said, I don’t think they were tricks, exactly. Just friends or something.”

  “Guys?”

  “Usually, though sometimes a guy and a girl, or two.”

  “Oh.”

  Horst shook his head. “I didn’t pay too much attention. It wasn’t my cup of tea.”

  “Mine either,” I commented, and noticed a slight approving look on my companion’s face.

  I looked around. For all its being used infrequently, Ted’s bedroom was as tidy and clean as the other rooms.

  Horst’s bedroom was at the end of the hallway, which turned out to be almost crammed with stuff. It wasn’t untidy, just kind of full. I had a strange feeling I was seeing this man’s entire life on display, and there was something about having one’s life represented in a single room that I found a little depressing.

  There were several modest-sized trophies, two framed certificates on the wall, and some framed pictures as well, including one of Horst and Quentin, along with a third person. I looked at the picture, and it struck me that Horst definitely was a good friend of Quentin’s.

  Immediately to the right of Horst’s room, was Quentin’s bedroom. Being the master bedroom of the condo, it was larger than the others, featuring a king-sized bed, the sheets of which were still in the state when I had seen Quentin lying there. The room was sparse of personal items, neater and more primly spotless than the other rooms.

  It had a walk-in closet and an en-suite bathroom with a hot-tub and shower. There was a large mirror over the counter, which had two basins. In the mirror’s reflection I noticed Horst towering over me by at least six inches, reminding me just how big the guy was, as well as how physically attractive.

  We returned to the hall and went into the main bathroom, as large but not as opulent as the en-suite unit. Then we returned to the kitchen and living room. The living room was really both living and dining room in one, with a beautiful dining table and buffet separated from the living area. When we had reseated ourselves with fresh drinks in the living room, I noticed that Horst looked at me expectantly.

  I had nothing to say, really, but felt there was something odd about the condo that I couldn’t quite place my finger on.

  Instead I decided to broach another area of interest.

  “You didn’t say much in your statement to the cops.”

  Horst stiffened, then frowned. “I talked to that nice woman cop. But that other one, the guy—” His lips tightened and he shook his head.

  I nodded. “A bit of a jerk,” I agreed. “But I think you don’t like cops generally. Is that right?”

  Horst shrugged and looked away, which gave the impression that there was something.

  “The thing is,” I said, “the security camera in the hallway showed that no one came or left the apartment before my arrival. That’s got them puzzled.”

  “And that’s why they think I did it.”

  I nodded. “The autopsy showed death to have been caused by heart failure due to anoxia—oxygen deprivation.”

  “So—what? He was strangled or smothered?”

  “There are no bruises on the neck. But there were bruises on his face, around the mouth.”

  “Like he was smothered.”

  “It looks like it.”

  Horst looked at me searchingly with those pale blue eyes. “How?”

  “Exactly.”

  Horst looked unhappy. “And I was the only person here.”

  “That’s pretty much how they see it.”

  Horst looked confused. “Well, no one came or left—so isn’t that kinda a fact, or something?”

  I leaned forward.

  “Look,” I said. “Could you go over exactly what you remember from that afternoon?”

  Horst pursed his mouth. Then he raised both hands.

  “Look,” he said. “I don’t know!”

  “Okay,” I said. “But, could you tell me just what you do remember? However little. It would help.”

  He gave me a doubtful look, then nodded.

  “Okay. It’s like I said. I was kinda foggy. I might have taken a sleeping pill to get to sleep for my nap. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. And all I remember is just coming out of my bedroom, into the living room and sitting down here on the couch. I was still there, just waking up, when you knocked.”

  “You didn’t go into Quentin’s room? You didn’t check on him?”

  “I—might have. I don’t know.” He frowned. “Why would I have, though?”

  I nodded. “Exactly.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, until I decided to broac
h my next suggestion.

  “Have you ever tried hypnosis?”

  “What? No.”

  “It can help people remember things.”

  Horst frowned and looked at me a bit stonily. “I saw something on the television about—false memories. So, isn’t hypnosis and recalling stuff kinda fake?”

  “That’s only if the questioning is done improperly: leading questions, that sort of thing.”

  “And you know how to do that? Hypnotize and ask questions?”

  I nodded, adding, “I just want to find out. And I’ll record the session. You can play it back, and if you don’t like what you hear, I promise you I will delete it.”

  Horst considered this, seeming surprised at the offer, and something of his initial openness returned when he studied me with those pale blue eyes.

  “Okay.”

  * * * *

  I hypnotized him while he lay on the couch in the living room. He was susceptible, I was pleased to discover, but as for remembering things, I found him more resistant. Rather than the memories I wanted, what surfaced were other memories, painful ones. And that sabotaged the first session almost completely.

  He did admit he went into Quentin’s bedroom, or at least looked in, and saw Quentin lying asleep. But then things got rather unpleasant.

  “No!” he said, shaking his head and groaning quietly. “I didn’t! I promise. Dad! No!”

  I felt a sick feeling in my stomach at this. Should I pursue this, to get it out of the way so I could get more details on that afternoon? I wasn’t sure. Instead, I decided to end the session. Horst seemed too worked up. I got him back to thinking about positive things—which for him was the sound of rain outside, and the moist smell of the verdure coming in through the window from a backyard. When he was sufficiently calmed, I brought him out of the hypnosis.

  When he opened his eyes, he merely gazed up at me, blinking. I smiled, just enjoying looking at his peaceful, innocent, beautiful face.

  Surely, I thought, this couldn’t be the face of a murderer.

  It took several minutes before Horst remembered where he was. Then he sat up, and looked at me, puzzled and expectant.

  “So?” he said.

  “You did look in on Quentin, though I’m not sure if you actually went into the bedroom. He didn’t lock his door, generally?”

  “Not most of the time. And he generally left the door open a crack. But sometimes, well, he’d go in there and not come out for a day or even two. Then I think he’d lock the door. I don’t know; I didn’t generally try it.”

  “A day or two? Really!”

  “Yeah. Well, he had his bathroom, and sometimes he’d take in some food. Like I said, he called it his inner sanctum. I think alone time like that was important to him.”

  “Huh.” I considered this, then added, “You know, he didn’t have many personal things in his room.”

  Horst looked at me blankly. “So?”

  “Well, I mean, not like your room.”

  Horst seemed defensive about this.

  “I guess I’m a pack rat, or something.”

  “No, no!” I said. “I’d call your room normal. Quentin’s isn’t.”

  “But wasn’t Ted’s room like Quentin’s?”

  “Yeah. But you told me he didn’t really live here; he just used it for fun and games from time to time.”

  “That’s true.” Horst shook his head slowly. “Maybe Quentin just didn’t like cluttering up his room. I mean the whole place was his.”

  “Yes, but think. He doesn’t really have a lot of personal stuff in any room.” I shook my head. “He wasn’t like that in college.”

  Horst looked thoughtful. “I think,” he said slowly, “that Quentin—he sometimes said something about the second stage of life being about simplifying. The first stage was about accumulating, that sort of thing. Maybe he was doing that.”

  I wanted to point out that Quentin had only been in his thirties. On the other hand, when did Quentin do anything in an ordinary way?

  “Maybe,” I said. But it still didn’t feel quite right.

  I searched Horst’s face. “Uh, would you be willing to have another hypnosis session?”

  “Why?”

  “To find out more about that afternoon.”

  “But—how come you didn’t, I don’t know—find out everything the first time?” He looked at my recording device.

  “You can listen to that if you want,” I said. “But you got sidetracked into painful stuff. I stopped it then.”

  Horst’s face had reddened. He looked at me, his face fearful. Then he stared at the machine again, and shook his head.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll do another session if you like.”

  “Good.” I considered. “Maybe if you were more comfortable. Would you be willing to do it with you lying in your bed?”

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  “What about some dinner?”

  “Oh, that would be great.”

  Horst showered while I started prepping in the kitchen. When he arrived in his bathrobe, he looked at what I was doing.

  “Can I help?”

  “Sure. Would you cut those red onions into small wedges?”

  “Okay.”

  Horst worked efficiently, and pretty soon we had everything ready for the casserole dish. It was Greek lemon chicken, one of my favorite recipes. While this was cooking, we made a green salad. Horst chose a bottle of white from the wine rack and we ate at the large table in the dining room area. I thought this unnecessary, but Horst said that it was one of Quentin’s traditions. I found myself rather enjoying it, sitting across from Horst.

  We talked about Quentin, relating stories of our own experiences with him. It had humorous moments, but it also was poignant too. And we toasted him several times.

  * * * *

  After having an after-dinner coffee in the living room, clearing up and doing the dishes together, I looked at Horst.

  “Ready?”

  He shrugged, and we both went down the hall, into his bedroom.

  “Maybe if you got into your pajamas?”

  “I don’t wear pajamas.”

  “Oh. What do you wear?”

  “Undershorts and undershirt.”

  “Well, that then.”

  He gave me a look, then shrugged.

  So, he stripped down to his underwear and lay down on his bed. I sat on a chair next to him.

  This time I was ready for the painful memories. I didn’t explore them, exactly, but did my best to comfort him as he worked through what came up on its own. I held his hand, which seemed to do some good, and when he was really worked up, I sat on the bed next to him and stroked his hair. In this way we finally got through the rough stuff, and back to that afternoon, to the moment when Horst had opened Quentin’s bedroom door.

  “He’s not moving,” Horst murmured, his voice tense. “I don’t know what to do.” There was a pause, then, and he began to hyperventilate. Finally, he cried out, “There’s something on his face! There’s something on his face!”

  After this I had to work just to calm him down. It wasn’t easy going at first. But when I laid down and held him in my arms, murmuring words of comfort, that seemed to do the trick, albeit slowly. Gently stroking his hands and arms, and even his face, also helped—though I couldn’t help reacting slightly to the stimulus of the contact, and had to restrain myself. I was able to keep focus on helping him. I’m just saying I became somewhat aroused—and was slightly annoyed with myself for being a bit shallow.

  When I brought him out of hypnosis, he blinked and stared up at me, coming to full awareness rather more quickly this time.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Some more painful memories. But you did apparently go in to check on Quentin. You were bothered by the fact that he wasn’t moving.” I decided not to refer to the other thing he had said.

  Horst’s expression became horrified. “I knew he was dead?”

  “I don’
t know. Maybe. Like I said, you got upset.”

  Horst groaned, closed his eyes, and rubbed his face with his hands. “Oh, God!” he murmured. “Maybe I did it, then.”

  “Don’t say that,” I said sharply. “There’s nothing to support that. I think if we get further, we’ll find out—but I really believe that you didn’t.”

  He looked at me doubtfully, but said nothing.

  “Maybe we should leave that for tomorrow,” I suggested.

  He nodded.

  “So,” I said, getting up. “I guess I sleep on the couch?”

  Horst shook his head. “I texted Ted. He’s not coming here tonight. You can sleep in his room. There are clean sheets on the bed.”

  “Oh. Thanks!”

  I went to Ted’s room and, after looking at the gas cylinders again—they all were oxygen—and shutting the closet firmly, I got into bed.

  It was a very comfortable mattress, better than the one I had at home, and I fell asleep almost immediately.

  Chapter 5: Inner Sanctum

  I woke the next morning, somewhat surprised to realize that I’d had a good night’s sleep, and aware of the delicious smell of breakfast. I went over the major points of my current situation in my mind. I was in Quentin’s condo, in his roommate’s bed, Quentin was dead, possibly murdered by the big blond bodybuilder who was perhaps, all things considered, the most beautiful man—body and soul combined—I had ever met.

  And then I realized that Horst—the man rather than the suspect—was responsible for my current sense of well-being. And the smell of breakfast.

  I got up, crossed to the bathroom, and got into the shower, revelling as I always did in the comforting warmth of the spray. After the shower I did my other morning ablutions, with the kit I always carried with me. Given the nature of my job, I often kept odd hours, and I knew how much being presentable meant in many circumstances.

  I glanced at myself in the bathroom mirror again, and decided I looked more or less presentable.

  “Come and get it!” came Horst’s voice as I approached the kitchen.

  The kitchen had a breakfast nook, with a table set for two. As I entered, Horst indicated a chair. He put everything on the table with the efficiency of a professional, and then seated himself.

  I surveyed the feast, and looked at him. “I’m impressed!” I said. “Do you always eat this well in the morning?”