A Picture of Guilt

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  His smile broadened.

  “Out.” I pointed to the door.

  “Tell you what. Lemme finish this edit, and I’ll dub it in the morning.”

  “Better yet, if you set up the machines, I’ll run the dubs myself.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “It’s okay. I can lock up.”

  “Well…” Indecision and desire warred on his face. “Mac—”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure he trusts me to lock a door.”

  Desire won. Hank finished the last edit and added black to the tail of the piece. Then he went into a side room to set up the dubs. After checking to see that the VHS machines were in sync, he started them rolling. “Thanks, Ellie. This means a lot.”

  “Go away before I change my mind.”

  He grabbed his backpack and bolted. I heard him race down the hall and out the door. Young love.

  Seating myself in his chair, I swiveled in front of the bank of monitors. We’d added three new excerpts and deleted three others. As the signals changed from digital impulses to magnetic signals and then to images and sounds, I marveled at the magic of technology.

  The reel was less than eight minutes. When it was over, I checked the dubs to make sure an image had indeed been recorded, then rewound and ejected them from the decks. The silence was sudden and deep. Hank had said not to shut down the Avid, so I gathered my bag and the shows we’d pulled.

  As I walked back into the tape library, I mentally indexed my clients of the past few years. Midwest Mutual; Seagrave’s Food Service; Van Allen, the paper company; Brisco Chemicals. I’d produced shows for them all. The corporate handmaiden.

  It hadn’t started out that way. I’d graduated college with dreams of becoming the American Lina Wertmuller who also produced substantive documentaries on the side. Seamlessly segueing from the arts to politics in a highly versatile and acclaimed career. Instead, I got married.

  I was restacking the Midwest Mutual show on the shelf, thinking how time really does mellow us all, when the door to the library slammed shut. I stood where I was, uncomprehending. Then I realized it had to be Hank. He must have forgotten something.

  “Hank?”

  I thought I heard footsteps on the other side of the door. “What’d you forget, lover boy?”

  No answer. I went to the door, intending to give him shtick about Sandy and how she’d be dressed to the nines if he didn’t get over there soon.

  I twisted the knob. It didn’t move. I tried again. Nothing. “Hank, are you there? The door’s locked.”

  Silence. I heard a squeak. “Hank. Stop screwing around.”

  I listened again and thought I heard a quiet rustling on the other side. Like paper being shuffled. Then a sharp, pungent smell. Familiar. Almost tangy. I banged my fists against the door.

  “Hank. Come on. Something’s wrong. Open up.”

  No one responded. I kept banging until my fist was sore. I pressed my ear against the door. I felt a sensation of warmth. Strange. I hadn’t expended that much energy. I leaned my palms against the door. More warmth. I looked down. At the bottom of the door, orange light flickered.

  My brain connected. The smell. Like a parking garage! Gasoline!

  I broke out in a sweat. Fire! And I was trapped. “Help!” I screamed. “Anyone. Fire! Open up!”

  I beat on the door with my palms until they stung. When nothing happened, I threw myself against it, hoping to smash the lock. Pain radiated through my shoulder, but the door held.

  The room seemed to have heated up ten degrees. “Help! Please!” I looked wildly around. Wasn’t there supposed to be a fire extinguisher in every room? Not here. No windows. No pictures. Not even a nail in the wall. But when I scanned the ceiling, a wave of relief surged through me. A sprinkler. Of course. Water would gush down and extinguish the fire. All I had to do was wait.

  I started pacing. I should call the fire department. I automatically looked for my bag, then realized I’d dropped it—and my cell—on the other side of the door. Damn! Meanwhile, crackles replaced the rustles on the other side of the door. The doorknob was too hot to touch. Wisps of black smoke seeped under the door. Didn’t I read that most fire fatalities came from smoke inhalation, not flames? I covered my mouth with my hand. Why weren’t the damned sprinklers working? Mac would never let fire prevention slip below code, would he? Should I stuff something under the crack in the door?

  Another smell, like burning tires, wormed itself into my nose and throat. I tried to remember what I knew about fire. Never open a door if it was hot to the touch; a new source of oxygen would fan the flames. No problem. It was so hot I couldn’t open it.

  Now thick curls of smoke were rising on my side of the door. The heat pressed against my skin. I was starting to sweat. Where was the water? The only way out was through the door. I might have to break it down to open it. But if I did, I might create a back draft. What should I do? I couldn’t wait much longer.

  I started to case the library, trying not to feel desperate. But aside from the tapes, the shelves, and the stepladder, which was too heavy to lift, there was nothing in the room. No windows. No furniture. Not even a trash can. I sucked down hot air.

  The shelves. They were the do-it-yourself kind that could be disassembled and put together in multiple configurations. Studying them, I got an idea. When they got going, the sprinklers would help douse the fire. If I could somehow use a shelf to break through the door when the water started, I might make it out.

  But that required the sprinklers to kick in. I looked up at the ceiling. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck. What was taking them so damn long? The ones in the hall, at least, should have been on by now. My heart sank. Mac probably hadn’t updated the system since he first moved in. And that was ten years ago. It was possible they weren’t going to work.

  Smoke billowed under the doorjamb and started to rise, saturating my clothes and hair. Heat blanketed the room like a shroud. I struggled to take a breath. If the sprinkler didn’t start soon, it wouldn’t matter. I dropped to the floor to find some breathable air. My stomach leapt to my chest. Flames licked the bottom of the door.

  I got up and lunged at the closest shelf. As the tapes on it clattered to the floor, I banged on the underside to dislodge it. But the metal teeth gripped the slots in the frame. Nothing moved. The smoke thickened and moved lower. I coughed. Sweat poured off my forehead. I kept pounding the underside of the shelf.

  Finally I was able to maneuver one of the teeth out of its slot. I kept banging; another one popped out. Grabbing the free end, I twisted and jerked. The shelf came free.

  It was a bulky, awkward piece of metal, about a yard long, a foot wide, an inch thick. I looked up. Smoke was dimming my eyesight, but the sprinklers were still dry. I was running out of time. I stepped back, holding the shelf like a battering ram. I swung it back to gain momentum, then smashed it into the door. The door shook. Something cracked, but it held. I backed up, clutching the shelf, but a spasm of coughing stopped me. There was too much smoke. The shelf slipped from my hands.

  I dropped to the floor and crawled to the other side of the room. But the air over there was just as smoky. I felt woozy. I forced myself to start naming the fifty states. I couldn’t give up.

  When the water finally streamed down, its force stung my skin and startled me awake. I was lying on the floor dazed and sleepy. The spray drenched me and seemed to dissolve the wall of smoke. I mouthed a prayer of thanks.

  Slowly I got to my feet. I picked up the shelf one more time and rammed it into the door. This time the veneer splintered, and a jagged hole appeared. I tore at it with my hands, breaking off slivers of wood. Finally, the hole I’d made was large enough to thrust my arm through. I stripped off my jacket and wrapped a sleeve around my hand. Then I reached through to unlock the door from the other side. Grabbing the shelf, I flung myself into the hall.

  Flames danced along the floor and walls, but no fireball engulfed me. The sprinklers were doing their job.
Using the shelf as a shield, I staggered through rising steam toward Mac’s office. I could make out the dim shape of the windows. I stumbled over to one, drew back the shelf, and rammed it as hard as I could. Glass shattered. An alarm sounded. Using the shelf, I broke off shards of glass that still clung to the frame and crawled through the window.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I was still gulping down air when the fire department arrived. My throat felt gritty, I was dizzy, and I was bleeding in two places on my legs. After checking my vitals, the paramedics insisted on taking me to the ER, but I refused. I did let them lead me to the ambulance, where they gave me a wet towel and a bottle of water, and bandaged my cuts. I wiped off some of the soot that covered me and slung my jacket over my shoulders. By the time Mac arrived, the fire been reduced to a residue of sodden debris.

  “A shelf?” After being briefed by the battalion chief, Mac came over and grabbed my shoulders. “You broke out of the library with a shelf?”

  “Someone locked me in.”

  “Where was Hank?”

  “He left.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I thought about making a crack about being toasted on a stick like a marshmallow, but when I looked at Mac, I changed my mind. Usually a consummate prep, he was wearing wrinkled khakis and a stained T-shirt. That stiff-upper-lip Wasp thing he does had vanished, an expression of fear and relief in its place. I nodded.

  “Christ, Ellie. You could have been killed.”

  I started to shrug, but the movement turned into a shudder, and the shudder into a sob. The tears started, and I sagged against Mac. He held me until it passed.

  ***

  I washed my hair three times, but it still smelled like smoke the next morning. Mac called to tell me the police had picked up Hank and held him for six hours at the station. They let him go around five.

  “They can’t think he had anything to do—”

  “Not anymore.” Mac’s voice was grim. I got the feeling it hadn’t been a fun time. “His girlfriend waited for him. They went back to her place.”

  Two points for Sandy.

  “They are treating it as an arson, aren’t they?”

  “They won’t confirm it, but I overheard the firemen talking about burn patterns and accelerant.”

  “Have you been back over?”

  “The hall’s totally gone. So is the Avid. Hank’s editing room is in bad shape, too, and the tape library is ruined.” He sighed. “And then there’s my window.”

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Mac.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been meaning to reorganize. But the camera gear is okay. And the other editing room is okay. Once we clean up the smoke damage, we’ll be back in business.”

  Always the optimist. “No ideas who did it?”

  “Not that they’re telling me.”

  I cleared my throat. “Mac…” I stopped. Rachel was standing at the kitchen door. “I’ll call you later.”

  I sat her down and told her an abbreviated version of what had happened. She blanched, then jumped up and threw her arms around me. “I want to stay home from school. With you.”

  “I love you too, sweetie.” I hugged her close. “But you can’t get out of it that easily.”

  Somehow I forgot to call my father.

  Village Detective Dan O’Malley showed up around nine. With shaggy red hair and freckled skin, he looks almost like a kid, except for his moustache and his height. He’s at least six four, and he fills any room he enters. But I’d dealt with him before, and we’d achieved a grudging respect for each other—an accomplishment, considering my attitude toward law enforcement and his toward nosy women. I poured coffee, aware that he was looking me over. I imagined him opening with “A fine kettle of fish we’re in now, Ollie.”

  He sipped his coffee. “How you feeling this morning?” His voice was surprisingly soft for a man of his bulk.

  “Like a slab of ribs at an all-you-can-eat barbecue.”

  “You seem to have a talent for attracting trouble.”

  “I guess you could look at it that way.”

  “Why? How do you look at it?”

  “The same way I did last night when your officers questioned me. I think it has something to do with Johnnie Santoro.”

  “The man whose trial you testified at.”

  I nodded. “His lawyer was killed a few days ago.”

  “So I hear.”

  I leaned against the counter. I was certain that the fire was linked to Santoro, Mary Jo, and Calumet Park. First Rhonda Disapio dies in an “accident.” Then Brashares in a robbery gone bad. Now someone was trying to turn me into a crispy critter.

  The problem was I couldn’t prove it. I couldn’t provide any evidence. And with nothing to back up my suspicions, the cops last night didn’t take me seriously. But, then, why should they? I’d been put in my place at the trial. Hammered by a rising star in state law enforcement.

  As if reading my mind, O’Malley looked over. “If there’s something you want to tell me, now would be a good time.”

  I hesitated, then ran him through the events since the trial, including what I’d learned from Rhonda and Sweeney. “Bottom line: I think Santoro was working a deal, and Mary Jo was his mule or his courier or something.”

  “Drugs?”

  I nodded. “It fell apart, they panicked, and Mary Jo was killed.”

  “They?”

  “Before she died, Rhonda Disapio told me two guys showed up at the boat launch at Calumet Park. She said they killed Mary Jo.”

  “Why didn’t she say that at trial?”

  “She was scared. They tried to come after her, after they got Mary Jo, but she got away. She didn’t want to take any chances.”

  “I don’t know.” O’Malley shook his head. “Sounds weak.”

  “Not if they were mixed up with the Mob.”

  “Who?”

  “The guys at Calumet Park. Santoro, too. He might even have ended up taking the fall for them.”

  O’Malley brushed a finger across his mustache. “You have any proof?”

  “It depends on your definition.” I told him that Santoro was a longshoreman but wasn’t well liked. And that he’d told Sweeney before the murder that he was onto something big.

  “Like I said, do you have any proof?”

  “Well, Rhonda Disapio did die in that ‘accident.’”

  “After she told you about the men at Calumet Park.”

  “And a few days later, Brashares was killed.”

  “And you think it’s all connected.”

  “Brashares could have known the men who killed Mary Jo. Maybe they pressured him to make sure Santoro took the fall. But maybe he had second thoughts. Maybe he threatened to blow it wide open and they had to shut him up.”

  “Got it all figured out, huh?”

  “Just coming up with possibilities.”

  “And now you think the Mob’s behind this alleged arson. That there’s some kind of conspiracy—I don’t know—to silence you.”

  “It is possible, isn’t it?”

  “But why? Why would they be coming after you?”

  I bit my lip. “Because I figured it out?” I said.

  He shook his head. “Ellie, how would they know? It’s not like you’ve been broadcasting it on the news.”

  He had a point.

  “Tell me,” he said. “What evidence can you provide that would help me find out?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He tapped a finger on his cup. “Aside from this Santoro business, is there anyone else you can think of—besides the Mafia—who’d want to do you harm?”

  I wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Not at the moment.”

  “I see.”

  The most I could get out of him was a promise to call the detectives assigned to Brashares’ murder.

  A young investigator from the fire department showed up after O’Malley left. He ran through what I gathered was a required checklist. He asked where I’d been when the fi
re first appeared; what I saw, heard, and smelled. He asked about the color of the smoke and flames, and whether I heard an explosion. He pulled out a sketch of the studio’s floor plan and asked me to retrace my steps from the time we finished the dubs until I crawled through the window. He left a few minutes later, a satisfied look on his face.

  I’m glad someone was satisfied. I felt like I’d spent a hundred dollars at the grocery store and come home with nothing.

  ***

  When Rachel and I got back from school that afternoon, Fouad was tramping across the lawn, waving a leaf blower. He turned it off when he saw us.

  “I heard about the fire on the radio.” He looked worried.

  “News travels fast.” I skirted the piles of leaves he’d collected.

  “You are not hurt?”

  I shook my head.

  “That is good.” His eyes fastened on something behind me.

  I turned to see Rachel with a worried expression of her own. “Aren’t you coming in, Mom?” She pulled on the straps of her backpack.

  “I want to talk to Fouad for a minute. You could start practicing the piano.”

  “You’ll just be a minute, right?”

  “You bet.” I brushed a curl off her forehead. “You can watch me through the window.” She nodded and went inside.

  “What is going on, Ellie?”

  I turned around. “I think someone is trying to kill me.”

  Fouad moved here from Syria over thirty years ago, knowing his appearance, accent, and customs would always mark him as an outsider. That he would never be treated with the back-slapping heartiness white America reserves for itself. Yet this outsider had risked his life for me. There weren’t many people I trusted more.

  His eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything—except that it began with Santoro.”

  I took him through the chronology. When I finished, he took the leaf blower off his shoulder. He doesn’t dwell on it, but Fouad knows about the dark, evil underbelly of human nature.

  “Why do you think it’s the Mafia?”

  “Because whoever is behind this doesn’t want something exposed, and they’re using a lot of resources to make sure it isn’t. I don’t know many other organizations with that kind of clout.”