Fletch Won

by Gregory Mcdonald

  There was a long pause before Alston next spoke. “Er, Fletch?”

  “Yes, Alston?”

  “Do you also believe you are following approved, police methods of investigation here?”

  “Of course I am. Why not?”

  Alston’s voice sounded distant from the phone. “I’ve never known the police to consider the victim’s recent reading list as evidence of anything.”

  “Why not? What better way is there of knowing what a person is thinking?”

  “Back to hard facts.” Alston’s voice became stronger. “You know Habeck and Jasmine never married?”

  “Donald and Louise never divorced. I know Jasmine is not Mrs. Habeck. I know she isn’t even Jasmine. Which brings up one of the favors I ask, ol’ buddy.”

  “Jasmine isn’t what?”

  “She thinks she’s in the Federal Witness Protection Program. In fact, while she was giving evidence in a trial in Miami, Donald Habeck absconded with her.”

  “In the middle of her giving testimony?”

  “I believe so. Donald apparently gave her the impression she was through testifying, free to go, and that he was some sort of an official. Jasmine has a one-cell brain. She believed him because he was a lawyer, was kind to her, in his fashion, and, I suppose, wore a nice suit.”

  “He did have nice suits,” Alston mused.

  “Not from the internal view. Would you please ask a federal officer to call upon her at Palmiera Drive and attempt to straighten out her life for her? She might still have evidence which would interest courts in Miami, as well as points north and west.”

  “That’s a favor? Sure. Always glad to get in good with the feds. My news is that Donald Habeck did indeed have a will, drawn up five years ago, and not altered since.”

  “And this will stands?”

  “Yes. Under its terms, everything goes straight to the children of Nancy Habeck and Thomas Farliegh, as they come of age.”

  “Wow! This shoemaker’s children have shoes. Or will have.”

  “Nothing remarkable about leaving everything directly to the grandchildren.”

  “You haven’t seen these grandchildren fight over a noisy toy tank.”

  “Brats, uh?”

  “Given an inheritance, the violence those kids will be able to raise might astound the Western World, as we know it.”

  “Great. Sounds like they’ll each need lawyers.”

  “Of one sort or another.”

  “And you don’t think their papa, the poet of violence, bumped off their grandpapa?”

  “What Tom Farliegh is best at is engineering mud into his babas’ maws.”

  “Come again?”

  “Violence is not natural to Tom Farliegh. He gets it from his in-laws.”

  “I was hoping you’d pin the punk. So none of the family bumped off Habeck?”

  “Any one of them could have, including Louise, including Nancy, even including the son, Robert, who is a monk. Each in her or his own way expressed the sentiment, to hell with Donald Habeck. Two elements, one big, one small, bother me. The big one is that I can’t establish that any of them knew before Donald was murdered that he planned to disinherit them all in behalf of a museum and a monastery. Of course, it’s hard to prove what people know and when they know it. But with the wife in an institution, the daughter in squalor, and the son in a monastery, when each says she or he didn’t know the change in Donald’s life and death plans, how can one not believe them?”

  “A lawyer never believes anyone, and that’s the truth.”

  “The weird thing that bothers me is how these people get around. Would you believe, in this day and age, none has a car? The Farlieghs’ car is just one more broken toy in their front weed-patch. Robert’s use of vehicles is limited. Louise sits in cars until their owner comes back and takes her where she wants to go, ultimately. None would seem to be able to time things, such as murder, too well. I don’t think the murderer drove into the parking lot of the News-Tribune, but how did he or she get there without a car?”

  “Pardon me for saying so, Fletch, but there are other lines of investigation to be followed. I hope you’re leaving something for the police to do. Wash out my mouth, but Habeck’s partners, for example.”

  “You’re right. But the family came first. Donald Habeck was about to announce he was disinheriting them. That’s a clear motive for murder, isn’t it?”

  “…The list of his present and past clients…”

  “Yeah. I saw Gabais. Habeck used him for publicity; in Gabais’s words, wrecked not only him, but his crippled sister. Hates Habeck. But I don’t think Gabais could organize himself enough to do murder. I think he pretty well gave up on his life when he saw his dogs’ heads bashed in.”

  “…Stuart Childers.”

  “Yeah. Tell me about him. How strong was the evidence that he killed his brother?”

  “Very strong, but, unfortunately, all self-admitted. I’ve got the file somewhere here on my desk. Thought you’d want it. Here it is. Richard was the elder brother, by about two years. A complete playboy. Never worked, never married, sponged off his parents, hung out with the yachty set, wrecked about one sports car a year. In his last car wreck, the girl who was with him was killed. Variously over the years Richard had also been charged with possession of small amounts of controlled substances, paternity twice, vandalism, one case of arson. He tried to burn down a boat shed. His parents always got him off.”

  “Using Habeck, Harrison and Haller?”

  “Yes. That’s how I know.”

  “Parents are rich?”

  “You’ve heard of Childers Insurance. Biggest, oldest, richest insurance brokerage firm in the city.”

  “On City Boulevard, right?”

  “That’s where their main office is, yes. Stuart, on the other hand, was the good son, dutiful, diligent, all that, never any trouble, graduated college with honors, worked for Childers Insurance every summer since he was sixteen, entered the firm as a qualified broker the November after he graduated.”

  “Good son, bad son, bleh,” Fletch said.

  In the street in front of him, another police car cruised by slowly.

  “After the last car wreck, in which the girl was killed, Mama and Papa Childers turned Richard off. No more family money for him. He had to prove himself, go get a job, stay out of trouble, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “There’s always an instead right about here in this story.”

  “Instead, Richard proved himself by blackmailing his brother. Or attempting to.”

  “What had Stuart done wrong?”

  “Gotten his honors degree by cheating. Paid some instructor to write his honors thesis for him. Richard, of course, never graduated from college, but had contacts at the old place, knew the instructor, et cetera.”

  “And the thought of being exposed, especially to his parents, proven to be no better than his brother, drove Stuart crazy.”

  “So he said.”

  “Who said?”

  “Stuart said. Richard was found dead on the sidewalk fourteen stories below the terrace of his apartment. There was lots of evidence of a fight having happened in the apartment, turned-over chairs, tables, smashed glass, et cetera. Stuart’s fingerprints were found in the apartment. So were others’. Because of Richard’s wild acquaintance, the inquest’s finding was Death by Person or Persons Unknown.”

  “I know Stuart confessed.”

  “Loud and clear. He walked into a police station late one afternoon, said he wanted to confess, was read his rights, taken into a room where he confessed into a tape-recorder, waited until the confession was typed up, then signed it.”

  “Enter Donald Habeck.”

  “Donald Habeck entered immediately, as soon the Childers knew their son was at the cop house confessing to killing his brother. Habeck ordered an immediate blood-alcohol test. Apparently, Stuart had braced himself with almost a quart of gin that day, before going to confess.”

  “So the confession w
as no good?”

  “Not only did the cops know he was drunk while making the confession, they even gave him maintenance drinks, of whiskey, to keep him going during the confession, and before he signed.”

  “How could they be so stupid?”

  “Listen. Cops try to get what they can get before the lawyer shows up. And that’s usually when they make their mistakes.”

  “In vino veritas is not a tenet of the law, huh?”

  “In Habeck’s own handwriting, I read you from the file: ‘In court, keep Stuart sedated.’ ”

  “They drugged him.”

  “Right.”

  Fletch remembered Felix Gabais saying, “You know what a defendant feels like at a trial? He’s in a daze…. What they’re sayin’ has nothin’ to do with what you’ve always thought about yourself…. You’re struck dumb….” “Maybe they needn’t have bothered.”

  “The confession was found inadmissible by the court. And, even though Richard and Stuart were known not to be friends, Habeck pointed out that a person’s fingerprints found in his brother’s apartment is insufficient evidence for the charge of murder, especially when there were many unidentifiable fingerprints there.”

  “You said everyone has a right to the best defense.”

  “Of course.”

  “Even involuntarily?”

  “I don’t know. All Habeck had to do here was raise a question of reasonable doubt, and that’s what he did.”

  “Stuart Childers confessed!”

  “Now, Fletch.”

  “What?”

  “Now, Fletch… Have you always meant absolutely everything you’ve said after too much to drink?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “If I believed that, I wouldn’t be talking to you. Or you to me.”

  “In vino a germ of truth?”

  “Inadmissible. Especially when the vino came out of the cops’ locker.”

  “I give up.” At the edge of the used-car lot a man wearing a ready smile and a lavender necktie dropped a lunch bag from a fast-food store into a waste receptacle. “In behalf of leaving no stone unturned, I guess I better go see Stuart Childers. The cops won’t listen to him again.”

  “Maybe he keeps confessing to every crime in town just hoping for another free drink at the police station.”

  “I’ve listened to every other nut in town. Might as well listen to him.”

  “Got a story to tell you.”

  “No more stories.”

  “You like stories about lawyers.”

  “No more, I don’t.”

  “I remembered that in the old days, when my grandfather was a lawyer in northern California, lawyers used to charge by the case, rather than by the hour. So in their offices they would saw a few inches off the legs of the front of the chairs their clients would sit in. You know, to make them lean forward, state their case, and get out.”

  “What’s funny about that? The chairs in modern fast-food restaurants are designed that way.”

  “What’s funny is that when lawyers began charging by the hour instead of the case, they all bought new chairs for their clients, and sawed a few inches off the back legs. You know? So the clients would relax and talk about their last vacations?”

  On the sidewalk, the car salesman stood, arms akimbo, smile ready, looking for a customer.

  Fletch cleared his throat while Alston laughed. “My second favor, ol’ buddy…”

  “Yes?”

  “Would be a real favor. Three corporations called Wood Nymph, Cungwell Screw, and Lingman Toys….”

  “I don’t think they’re on the exchange.”

  “Even the telephone exchange. I need to know their relationship to each other. And, of most importance, who owns them.”

  “I’ll trace them right now.”

  “No need. Anytime within the next half-hour will do.”

  “No. Seriously. I’ll do it right now.”

  The salesman spotted Fletch sitting in the Datsun. “Doesn’t Habeck, Harrison and Haller give you any other work to do?”

  “Not anymore. I resigned from Habeck, Harrison and Haller an hour ago.”

  “What?”

  Alston Chambers had hung up.

  “So. How do you like it?” the used-car salesman asked Fletch through the car window.

  “Like what?” Fletch asked.

  “The car. Want to buy it?”

  “I hate it.” Fletch turned the key in the ignition. “Listen to that! Muffler’s no damned good!”

  To the amazement of the used-car dealer, Fletch put the Datsun in gear, roared off the lot into the street, and away. The FOR SALE sign blew off the windshield and landed on the sidewalk, not far from the salesman’s feet.

  “You’re from the News-Tribune?” Stuart Childers looked young and neat in his business suit and necktie behind his wooden desk. He looked basically healthy, as well, except for bags of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. His teeth kept tearing at his lips.

  “Yes. Name of Fletcher.”

  “I take it you’re not here to see me about insurance?”

  “No. I’m not. The doorman at your apartment house said you were here at your office.”

  “You may be the answer to a prayer.” Stuart Childers took a .22 caliber revolver from the top drawer of his desk. He placed it in the center of the desk blotter in front of him. “If I’m not arrested for murder by five o’clock today, I intend to blow my brains out.”

  “That’s some threat.” Fletch sat in a chair facing the desk. He quoted, ‘“When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.’ ”

  The office was small but paneled with real wood. There was a Turkish rug on the floor.

  “You want to find out who murdered Donald Habeck, is that right?” Childers asked.

  “That’s the job of the police and the courts,” Fletch answered.

  “The police!” Childers scoffed. “The courts! Oh, my God!”

  “I want the story,” Fletch said. “I’m a journalist. My own purpose is to understand Donald Habeck, as much as possible, and why he was murdered.”

  “Have you gotten far?”

  “Yes. I’ve gotten some good background.”

  Childers contemplated the handgun on his desk. “I murdered Donald Habeck.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “The police won’t listen to me.”

  “You’ve confessed to everything that’s gone down in this area in the last two months.”

  “I know,” Childers said. “That was a mistake.”

  Fletch shrugged. “We all make mistakes.”

  “Don’t you think we have a need for punishment?” Teeth tearing at his lips, Childers looked to Fletch for an answer, waited. “If we are being punished for what wrong we did, at least we can live with ourselves, die with ourselves.” He waved his fingers at the handgun. “Just going bang is not the better way.”

  Still Fletch said nothing.

  “What do you know of my brother’s death?”

  “I know you were drunk when you confessed to the police. I know Habeck kept you drugged during the trial.”

  “Yes. Tranquilizers. Habeck said he always gave them to his clients during a trial. I had no idea how strong they were. The trial went by in a blur, like a fast-moving railroad train.” Childers’s teeth worried his lips. “I murdered my brother.”

  Fletch said, “I expect you did.”

  “How is that forgivable?” Again, he seemed to be asking Fletch a real question. “Richard said he was going to blackmail me, for money to keep up his whacky, careless life. Even if I was paying him, he couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut. His need to hurt me, and my parents, was too great. My mistake was that I was horrified at the threat of the college, the world, my parents learning that I had cheated, hired an instructor to write my honors thesis. I went to Richard’s apartment. I didn’t intend to kill him. We fought like a couple of shouting, screaming, crying, angry kids. Suddenly we were on his little balcony. Suddenly the expre
ssion on his face changed. He fell backwards. Fell.”

  “You confess very convincingly.”

  “I woke up on the other side of the trial. I was back living in my apartment, coming to work here every day. Everybody was telling me the incident was over, closed, that I had to get on with my life. How could I get on with my life? The so-called incident wasn’t over. My parents knew I had cheated on my honors thesis. One son was dead. The other son had murdered him. And my parents knew it. I had destroyed my parents’ every dream, every reality. I might as well have killed them, too.” From the way he was looking at him, Fletch knew another unanswerable question was coming. “My parents did what they thought was best in hiring Habeck, in getting me off. But wouldn’t they feel better in their hearts if their sole remaining son took responsibility for what he had done?”

  Fletch said nothing.

  “You asked for a story,” Childers said.

  “So you took to confessing.”

  “Yeah. I’d read enough about a crime to be able to go into the police and say I committed it. They had to listen, at first. I’d make up evidence against myself. That was my mistake. The evidence wouldn’t check out. So they wouldn’t believe me at all.”

  “You’re sure you just didn’t want to play a starring role in court again?” Childers gave him the look of a starlet accused of being attractive. “Some people get a kick out of that.”

  Childers sighed and looked at the gun.

  “Stuart, you can’t be tried again for murdering your brother.”

  “I know that. So I murdered Habeck.”

  “Now the story gets a little hard to swallow.”

  “Why?”

  “Murdering your brother was a crime of passion. Two brothers, very angry with each other, probably never having been able to talk well with each other, finding each other tussling, hitting each other, all kinds of angers at each other since you were in diapers welling up out of your eyes. And one of you got killed. That’s very different from the fairly intellectualized crime of killing the person who had prevented your receiving punishment for the first crime.”

  “Is it? I suppose it is.” He looked sharply at Fletch. “Frustration is frustration though, isn’t it? Once you’ve taken a life, it becomes easier to take another life.”