I stayed silent, let my emotions cool.
“I gave up,” he said. “Everything.”
“I know you did, Guy.” I reached down and petted his hair. “I know you did.”
“I swear. I didn’t. I didn’t.”
“Okay. I’ll believe you for now.”
“Oh, God. What? What am I? What?”
“Shhhhhh. You’ll be all right, Guy. I’ll do what I can. The police are going to come. They are already on the way. Do not talk to them. Do not say anything to the police until we can talk first. I’ll do what I can.”
“I loved her.”
“I know.”
“Victor. God. I loved her. So much.”
“I know you did, Guy. I know you did. That was the problem.”
I was still petting his hair when came the cars with their sirens and their flashing lights, and the three of us, Guy and Hailey and I, were no longer alone.
2
GUY FORREST was sitting now at the dining room table, his head in his hands. A cop had brought down some clothes for him, and rain was no longer streaming from the angles of his body, but his head was still in his hands. His head was in his hands and his lower jaw was trembling, as if struggling to say something, anything. But I maintained a hand on his shoulder and made sure he kept it all to himself. That’s what defense attorneys do. We’re there to make sure our clients don’t do anything stupid after they’ve done something worse than stupid.
With my hand on his shoulder, Guy wasn’t talking, and maybe he wasn’t thinking either. Maybe he couldn’t acknowledge the realities of his world now that Hailey Prouix was dead. Love can do that to you. It can send you soaring higher than falcons, it can rip you open from your sternum to your spleen, it can send you running. That’s what Guy was doing now, at the dining room table with his head in hands and his jaw trembling. I wouldn’t let him do anything stupid like talk to the cops, so instead, in his mind, he was running, but he wasn’t going to get very far.
He was a handsome man, Guy Forrest, wavy dark hair, swarthy good looks, a five o’clock shadow that emphasized his classic bone structure. He worked out regularly, always had, even when we were law students together, but even so, there was something weak about him. His chin was too sharp, his gaze too wavering. Looking at Guy, you had the sense you were looking at a Hollywood facade of what a man should look like, perfect on the outside, but one stiff breeze would blow him down. And now he had been beset by a hurricane.
It had grown crowded in and about that little house. Someone upstairs was taking pictures. Someone upstairs was dusting for fingerprints and swabbing for blood. Someone outside in the rain was examining the windows and flower beds for signs of forced entry. Someone in the neighborhood was going door to door, asking questions. Television vans, alerted by the scanner, were on the street in force. The noose was already tightening around Guy Forrest’s neck, and there was precious little I could do about it.
The coroner’s van sat on the street by the house’s front entrance, its motor running, its lights flashing. The attendants were in the front seat reading the Daily News, drinking coffee, waiting for the okay to take the body away. We were in the dining room, drinking nothing, but also waiting to be allowed to leave. I had already given as much information about Hailey Prouix’s next of kin as I could extract from Guy, the name of and an address for her sister, and had packed for Guy a small gym bag with a change of clothes. Twice I had tried to exit the house with him, twice I had been politely ordered to remain until Guy could speak to the detectives. Except Guy wouldn’t be speaking to the detectives.
“Mr. Carl, is it?” said a tall, good-looking young woman in jacket and pants who entered the room. Her hair was cut short, her nose freckled. With her broad shoulders and confident smirk, she carried the athletic air of a field-hockey coach and referred to her notepad as if it were a playbook.
“That’s right,” I said.
“And Mr. Forrest?”
Guy raised his head, looked at the woman, said nothing. His eyes were impressively red-rimmed, the eyes of the seriously bereaved. Or, considering what I had found in the bathroom, maybe the eyes of someone who was about to ask you to bust open another sack of Doritos, dude.
“As you can understand,” I said, “it’s been a very difficult evening for us all.”
“Of course,” said the young woman. “I’m County Detective Stone. With me is County Detective Breger.”
She gestured at the man standing behind her, whose attention was turned away from us as he examined the edges of the dining room carpet. He was a good three decades older than she, with a sad face and plaid jacket. His shoulders were thick and rounded, his posture slumped, he was a great hunch of a man. There was something soft about Breger, something tired, as if he had grown comfortable in a routine that was being shattered by his younger, more enthusiastic partner.
“I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Forrest,” said Detective Breger even as he continued his inspection of the room. “I have been doing this now for thirty-six years, and it is still a tough thing to see.”
Guy tried to get a thank-you past his quivering jaw and failed.
“Miss Prouix was what to you, Mr. Forrest?” asked Stone. “Your girlfriend?”
“His fiancée,” I said.
“Fiancée?” said Breger. “Oh, hell. That is a tough one. When was the wedding supposed to be?”
“As soon as Mr. Forrest’s divorce came through,” I said.
Stone shot me a look. “Mr. Carl, you’re a friend? An adviser? What?”
“I am a friend of Mr. Forrest’s, but I am also a lawyer. Mr. Forrest called me when he found Miss Prouix on the bed.”
“So you’re here now as what?”
“A friend,” I said. “But a friend who knows that when a man is in shock over the death of a loved one, maybe it’s not the best time to be talking to the police.”
“It is if the goal is to get the bastard who did this before the trail grows cold. We have questions for Mr. Forrest.”
“I don’t think he’d be much help in his current condition.”
“Seems to me you’re acting more like a lawyer than a friend.”
“For the moment, yes, that’s how I’m going to handle it.”
“Is that what he wants?” said Stone, nodding her head at Guy.
“That’s what he wants.”
“What about our questions?”
“I’ll answer what I can,” I said.
Stone looked at Breger, Breger shrugged. This is normally when the cops get angry and indignant, this is normally when it all turns adversarial. This is when Stone starts threatening and Breger holds her back and the whole madcap mad-cop routine plays itself out. I knew it was coming, anxious as I was to get Guy out of that house I was steeled for the onslaught of police craft, but instead of putting on a snarl, Stone smiled. “We appreciate your help. Having you here to assist us will make things easier. At some point we will need to ask Mr. Forrest some questions.”
“Mr. Forrest is still in something of a daze. Could your questioning of him wait until tomorrow?”
“If that’s what you think best,” said Breger, his gaze now scanning the ceiling.
“I do.”
“Of course you do,” said Breger. “Mr. Forrest is going through an ordeal. His fiancée is dead in their bed, a bullet wound in her chest. Any of us would be in shock. You want him to be able to pull himself together before he speaks to us.”
“How’s tomorrow morning?” said Stone as she handed me her card.
“I think that would be all right. I’ll let you know in the morning if his condition makes it impossible. I was going to take Mr. Forrest to my apartment for the night.”
“Good idea,” said Breger, who had stepped over to a window and was closely examining the sill. “Mr. Forrest looks like he could use a stiff drink or two.”
“He knows not to leave the area,” said Stone.
“I’ll make sure of it. I’ll bring him to yo
u myself tomorrow morning.”
“Along with his new attorney,” said Stone.
Stone smiled at me. I smiled back. This was something completely new. They were playing good-cop, good-cop. I supposed that’s how they did it in the suburbs.
“So now,” I said, “if we could be excused, I’d like to let Mr. Forrest get some sleep.”
“If it is any consolation, Mr. Forrest,” said Breger, looking straight at Guy now, “we are going to do our best to get the bastard who did this. We will put all our resources into digging out the truth and, believe us, dig it out we will. We will not rest until the killer is found and tried and convicted. We will not rest until the killer is rotting away in the penitentiary. I want you to know that, Mr. Forrest, and I hope it gives you some comfort.”
“Yes, well, thank you for that, Detective Breger,” I said. “Now, if we could be excused.”
“Can you just give us a moment, Mr. Carl?” said Stone.
The two detectives stepped out of the dining room. I patted Guy on the shoulder and followed.
“Can you tell us what you know?” said Stone, who was taking the lead in the questioning while Breger examined some paperwork.
“I was home, sleeping through the baseball game, when Guy called.”
“What did he say?”
“I can’t tell you. Depending on the circumstances, it might be a privileged communication.”
“You mean if he was calling you as a lawyer,” said Breger, “instead of as a friend.”
“That’s right. But he didn’t say much. He wasn’t really coherent. He sounded out of his head, confused.”
“Stoned?”
“With grief, maybe. I didn’t know what to do. I told him to stay calm, that I’d be right over.”
“What number did he call?”
“My home number.” I gave it to them. “When I arrived, he was sitting on the steps waiting for me.”
“In the rain?”
“Yes. Sobbing. And he was naked. I ran upstairs and found her on the mattress. I used the upstairs phone to call 911. Then I took a black raincoat from the hall closet, went back out with Guy, covered him as best I could. I waited out there with him.”
“When you were up in the room, did you see a gun or shells or anything?”
“No.”
“Did you smell anything, anything funny?”
“Other than the gunpowder and the smell of the blood? No.”
“It must have been a shock for him to see her dead like that,” said Breger.
“I suppose so.”
“Why, then, do you think he called a lawyer?” asked Breger, his head still in the file. “Of all the people he could call when he saw what he saw, why do you think he called a lawyer? I don’t think I would call a lawyer. A doctor, the police, my mother maybe, but not a lawyer.”
“He burned a lot of bridges when he left his family and his job to move in with Hailey. We had stayed in contact. He had introduced me to Hailey months ago. Maybe there was no one else for him to call.”
“You say Guy left his wife for her?” asked Stone. “What is the wife’s name?”
“Leila,” I said. “Leila Forrest. They weren’t yet divorced.”
“Do you have an address?”
I gave it to her.
“That’s Berwyn.”
“Yes it is.”
“Nice place, Berwyn. Any idea who might have wanted to kill Ms. Prouix other than this Leila Forrest?”
“I never said Leila wanted to kill her. And I don’t know of anyone else.”
“What was she like, the victim?”
“I don’t know, Hailey was…special. Sweet, in her own way. Pretty. A nice girl. This thing is just tragic.”
“Any problems between Mr. Forrest and Ms. Prouix?”
“They were in love, madly in love. Sick in love. Anything else?”
“You want to get him out of here, don’t you?” said Breger. “You want to take him someplace where the body of his fiancée isn’t lying dead on a mattress upstairs.”
“Exactly.”
“Good idea. We’ll see you and Mr. Forrest tomorrow. Is nine too early?”
“It’s going to be a tough night,” I said. “Let’s shoot for ten.”
Breger and Stone glanced at each other. Maybe it was my unfortunate choice of verb.
“Ten it is,” said Stone. “You didn’t by any chance have an umbrella or something?”
“No, why?”
“Thank you for your help,” said Breger, his gaze back in the file. “See you tomorrow at ten.”
I left the two of them huddling in quiet conversation and went back to Guy in the dining room. I spoke to him softly. I helped him stand. I helped him put on the raincoat. I took hold of his gym bag. Gripping his arm, I helped him toward the door before Detective Breger dropped his meaty hand on Guy’s shoulder.
“Mr. Carl,” he said, while looking not at me but at Guy, “we won’t ask Mr. Forrest any questions, because you asked us not to, but could we perform one small test, just for our peace of mind?”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” I said.
“Just one test,” said Breger. “It won’t take but a minute. Just a precaution really. Shirley, come here please. Shirley is one of our best Forensic Unit technicians. Shirley, could you do what you have to do with Mr. Forrest’s hands?”
“I really should get him out. Why don’t we leave this for tomorrow?”
“This won’t take but a minute,” said Breger. “The strips are already prepared, which makes it go really quickly. And it could really help us move the investigation forward.”
“Hold out your hands, Mr. Forrest,” said Stone in a quiet but commanding voice that left no possibility of refusal. Guy did as he was told.
Shirley took wide strips of clear adhesive and pressed them on the back of each of Guy’s hands, concentrating on the web of flesh between the thumb and the forefinger. With a flourish she ripped the strips off, one at a time, and carefully put them on a fresh backing. Then she did the same to each palm.
“What do you think?” said Breger.
“His hands seem too clean,” said Shirley. “How long was he out in the rain?”
Breger turned to me and raised an eyebrow.
“Could have been twenty minutes,” I said, “could have been more.”
“Doubtful there would be anything left,” said Shirley, “but you never know.”
“Okay, thank you,” said Breger. “We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Carl. See you tomorrow.”
I grabbed hold of Guy’s arm and tried to rush him out of the house before they could think of some other hoop through which they wanted him to jump. We were just about to step outside when I heard Breger say, “Oh, Mr. Carl.”
I stopped, breathed deep, turned.
He was bent on one knee, examining the carpet to the left of the doorway. Without looking up, he said, “It’s a little nasty out there tonight. Be sure to drive carefully.”
Suburban cops.
If this had been just a few blocks over, on the city side of City Line Avenue, it wouldn’t have gone down with such sweet understanding. The city cops would have put Guy in custody right smack away. They would have seen him as the obvious suspect, as the only suspect, actually. And the fact that he had called a lawyer before an ambulance would have been for them absolute proof of his guilt. Next day I’d be standing next to Guy in the crummy little courtroom in the Roundhouse as he was arraigned for first-degree murder. The DA would have noted the crime was a capital one, the judge would have denied bail, and Guy would have spent the next year growing sallow in jail as he waited for his trial. And with him in jail, what good could I accomplish? With him in jail, how could I ask what I needed to ask, learn what I needed to learn?
A decision had been made and I needed Guy out of jail, even for just a few days, a few hours, to carry it through. It is why I scoured the crime scene like I did, why I took the reefer and didn’t tell them about the
gun. Even so, I didn’t think it would be enough, even so even the greenest city cop would have taken him in. But see, we weren’t on the city side of City Line Avenue, we were on the other side, the suburban side, where the police were ever helpful and ever polite. Despite the little incident with the gunpowder test, the suburban cops maintained their form and sent Guy and his lawyer off into the night with a kindly admonition to drive carefully.
“Thank you, Detective Breger,” I said, feeling the weight of the gun pull down at my raincoat pocket, “you’ve been most kind.” And I meant every word of it.
3
I CARED for him as best I could.
Like a Secret Service agent, I took for myself the blows of lights and flashes from the cameramen and photographers waiting predatorily outside the house. The reporters had already ferreted out the details of the crime, knew the name of the victim, the name of her fiancé. “Mr. Forrest, any comment about what happened to Miss Prouix?” “Mr. Forrest, who killed Hailey?” “Guy, can you tell us how you feel?” “Are you devastated?” “Show us some tears.” “Why did you do it, Guy?” “Was there a stripper involved, like the other one?” “If you have nothing to hide, why won’t you talk to us?” “Hey, Guy.” “Yo, Guy.” “Over here.” I deflected their questions with a smile and a few brief words about the tragedy. I strategically kept myself between Guy and the camera lenses while pulling him to my car. Speed and silence, I had learned, were the best weapons against the media, giving them nothing of interest to show their sensation-starved audience. But then again I’ve always found it hard to turn down free publicity—one of the very few things money can’t buy. So even as I pulled Guy to my car, I forced a smile and gave a little speech and handed out my business cards to make sure in the early editions they spelled Carl with a “C.”
As I drove off, the cameras and their lights were staring at us through the car windows like alien eyes.
The rain had tapered off somewhat, now it was only spitting on the windshield as we drove through the glum night. Guy tried to tell me in the car what had happened and I wouldn’t let him. I wouldn’t let him. His face was green from the dashboard light as we drove past the dark, rotting porches of West Philly. I suggested he lie back in the passenger seat and close his eyes. I didn’t want him to talk about it just then. The time would come that night, but not just then. I checked the rearview mirror to make sure no reporters were following and spotted nothing.
Fatal Flaw Page 2
