Hiding Place (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “David. Don’t. You can’t. You—” Sobbing, she fell awkwardly to her knees beside him, reaching out. The boy leaped to his feet, twisted away and disappeared. I could hear the fading sound of his sobbing. Then I heard the back door slam violently.

  Still on her knees, the woman turned toward James Fisher. Her face was a streaked, ruined mask of malevolence. Her lips were drawn back, revealing tight-clenched teeth. “Are you satisfied now?” she whispered. “Now are you satisfied? You—you animal.”

  She staggered to her feet. I could hear her sobs, too, crossing the yard toward the house.

  Twenty-one

  I WAITED FOR FRIEDMAN and Fisher to step out into the hallway, then I closed and locked the door of the tiny cagelike prisoner’s elevator.

  Friedman drew me aside, gesturing for Fisher to sit on a long wooden bench. “Why don’t you interrogate him?” Friedman said softly. “I’ll see what’s been happening in the field. Shall I send Culligan in to you?”

  “I won’t need him.”

  “Where’ll you be?”

  “In my office.”

  Friedman’s quick, shrewd glance was speculative. Regulations stated that all bona-fide suspects must be questioned in locked interrogation rooms, with two officers inside and one officer posted in the corridor.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s not violent.”

  “I once spent a month in the hospital after interrogating a nonviolent suspect.”

  I shrugged. For a moment we eyed each other, engaged in a minor contest of wills. Finally Friedman lifted his beefy shoulders in a shrug of grudging acquiescence.

  “I’ll prepare the booking papers,” he said. “Provided, of course, that David hasn’t confessed to both murders.”

  Exchanging another long look, we mutely agreed that it hadn’t been a very good joke. I turned away, brusquely signaling the prisoner to his feet.

  “Sit down, Mr. Fisher.” I gestured to my visitor’s armchair.

  He looked down at the chair. After examining it, he turned deliberately, flexed his knees, and slowly lowered himself into the chair. He moved as if each motion required a separate act of will.

  “Do you understand why you’re here?” I asked finally.

  “Yes, I understand.” His voice was totally uninflected: a hollow-sounding automaton’s voice, matching his mechanical movements.

  “In a little while,” I said, “we’re going to bring you some other clothes.”

  He nodded somberly. “Jail clothes.”

  “No, Mr. Fisher. They’re not jail clothes. In fact, if you like, I’ll ask your relatives to bring you some of your own clothes.”

  He sat with his hands folded in his lap, one hand covering the other, looking down at them pensively. At intervals he moved the topmost hand, slowly stroking the one beneath.

  “We need the clothes you’re wearing for the laboratory—for analysis. When the technicians are finished—if the results are negative—you’ll get the clothes back.”

  Head still bowed, he said, so low I could barely hear him, “Negative, that means I’m safe. But positive means murder.”

  I sighed. “Do you want some clothes from your home, Mr. Fisher?”

  “No.” He sat quietly, head lowered as though in prayer. He was leaning slightly forward. His knees and feet were together. His shoulders were rounded. It was an ascetic, monastic posture. “It’s not my home,” he said tonelessly. “So my clothes can’t be there if I’m not. Because everything I have is where I am. You live inside your clothes. Deep down inside your clothes, hiding.” He paused. Then: “But you won’t find any blood.”

  “Then you’ll be in good shape,” I answered.

  Again his lips stirred, smiling slightly. “Yes, I’ll be in good shape.”

  We sat quietly, neither of us moving. Finally: “I’ll be back in a small room,” he said. “It’s where it all started: in a small room. And that’s where it should end. Because, you see, that’s where I’m safest. I’m locked in, and they’re locked out. I tried to tell them that in Graceville. I tried to tell them that I should stay—that I wanted to stay. But then they told me that I was cured and I had to go home. But what they really meant, you see, was that they wanted my room for someone else. So they asked Bill to take me home. That’s what they called it, home. But they shouldn’t. Because words are just words, and love isn’t always the right word. Not really. Not always. Not when you grow up and feel the world slipping away from you. Because, then, you’ve got to hold on with both hands. And that’s all you have—just two hands. So, really, you’re helpless. Even if you want to, and it’s all slipping away, you can’t touch anyone, because you only have two hands. Th—that’s what happened to me, you know. And to David, too—that’s what’s happening to him.”

  “Did David lie, Mr. Fisher? Did he lie, to protect you?”

  “Yes, he lied. You could’ve seen it in his eyes if you’d really looked.”

  I sat for a moment, debating whether to go on with it. Finally I decided to wait for the lab reports. I summoned Culligan to my office, scribbling a note that instructed him to get the lab tests started, meanwhile confining James Fisher in a private holding cell, pending the results of the tests.

  As Culligan waited for Fisher to rise from the visitor’s chair, my phone rang. With a feeling of relief at the interruption, I picked up the receiver.

  “Lieutenant Hastings.”

  “It’s Ann, Frank.”

  “Hi.”

  “Are you busy?”

  The prisoner walked slowly out into the hallway, still with his hands clasped, head bowed, shoulders hunched forward.

  “No,” I answered, watching the door close. “No, I’m not busy. Not now.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that Thursday isn’t good for dinner, after all. Billy’s having a play rehearsal. Can you come tomorrow night?”

  “I think so. Unless something new comes up.”

  She hesitated. Glancing at my watch, I was surprised to discover that it was five o’clock. She would be phoning from home.

  “Does that mean that your—your current case is finished?” she asked.

  “I think so. That’s the way it looks.”

  “Is my—my friend involved?”

  “I’m afraid so. Indirectly.”

  I heard her sigh. “I’m sorry, darling,” she said slowly. “I really am sorry. For you, I mean.”

  “Ann, you…”

  “And I’m sorry for having said it,” she interrupted quickly. “I’ve been thinking about our—our conversation the other night. And I can see that it doesn’t help you, for me to talk about it. Even telling you that I’m trying to understand doesn’t help, because I can’t understand. There’s no way. And I—I see that now. But I just had to know about David.”

  “I know. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “All right. I’ll let you go now, darling. I won’t say any more about it. I promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “About six?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”

  “All right. Goodbye, Frank.”

  I replaced the receiver in its cradle, then just sat there idly touching the buttons at the base of the phone, lightly brushing the clear plastic cubes with the tips of my fingers.

  The phone with its five plastic buttons was a status symbol. I had a private office, and a clothes rack, and a walnut desk, and a phone with five buttons. I’d been to college. I’d played injury-ridden second-string professional football, badly. I’d married an heiress, and fathered two good-looking, incredibly poised children. I’d worked for my father-in-law, entertaining too many important clients with too many drinks at too many bars. I’d…

  A knock sounded, I recognized the characteristic tattoo. It was Friedman.

  “Come in.” I swiveled to face the door.

  Carrying a manila folder, Friedman sank heavily into the armchair and haphazardly tossed the folder on my desk. “How’d it go?”
he asked, taking a cigar from an inside pocket.

  “He admitted that the boy lied. If the clothes check out positive, we’ve got a case that we can take to the D.A.”

  “Did the boy lie both times—about both days?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Didn’t you ask?”

  “No.”

  Grunting noncommittally, he rummaged unsuccessfully for a match. I opened my center desk drawer and threw a book of matches across the desk.

  “Maybe it’s all coming together,” Friedman said, tossing his still-smoking match into my wastebasket.

  I banged my drawer closed and pushed an ashtray across the desk, at the same time staring pointedly at my wastebasket. If a fire ever started, it would…

  “Where’s Fisher now?” Friedman asked.

  “Culligan’s got him—getting his clothes for the lab. Have you filled out the papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s in there?” I pointed to the manila folder. “The field reports from today?”

  He nodded, snorting ruefully. “It’s all just a big bunch of nothing, really. Christ, I never realized it until today, when I actually got out there, but all the victims and all the suspects are living in each other’s back pockets. And then, when you figure in those alleys—” He shrugged. “They might as well be connected to each other by secret passageways.”

  “Were they all accounted for between three and three-thirty?”

  “They were none of them accounted for. Not really.” He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, organizing his thoughts. Then, reciting elaborately, he intoned: “Walter Cross said he was home, drinking. Which, according to the examining officer, he very well could’ve been, since he was pretty well potted. Lester Farley was out—and is still out. Randall Grant got home at approximately three forty-five. He said he stopped off for a drink—and he had alcoholic breath. I left Ellen Grant’s at approximately quarter to three, and didn’t return until I talked to you, which Manley tells me was 3:27 P.M. So Ellen could’ve gone out and come back without my knowing. She said she was home, though—but she didn’t have any witnesses.”

  “What about Bill Fisher? Did anyone check him?”

  Surprised, Friedman raised his eyebrows. After pausing to blow a leisurely smoke ring, he said, “Is Bill Fisher a suspect? I didn’t know.”

  “I was just curious. The wife was out. I just wondered about the husband.”

  “What do you propose for a motive, where the Fishers are concerned?”

  “Oh, come on, Pete—” I shifted irritably in my chair. “Let’s—” I broke off. To my surprise, I was angry. “Let’s get on with it, instead of teasing it to death.”

  For a moment, puffing on the cigar, he didn’t respond. Irritably, I flopped out my hand, deliberately knuckle-rapping the desk. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I—I’ve about had it with this case. If we’ve got it wrapped up, let’s wrap it up—and go home.”

  Leaning forward, he deposited a long ash in my ashtray. “The next move is up to the lab,” he said, as if I didn’t know the whole procedure. “And then the D.A. Pretty soon we’ll be off the hook. We’re meeting tomorrow at one o’clock with the D.A. guy. By that time we’ll have a lab report on the pruning shears and Fisher’s clothing. Marge Fisher and the boy both identified the shears, incidentally. Markham took the shears by their house.” He paused. I could feel his eyes on me, but I didn’t look up. Suddenly his voice irritated me. “Why don’t you go home?” he said. “Go through the garage if you want to give the reporters the slip. I’ll stay here for a few minutes—to keep my eye on your wastebasket for you. Just in case.”

  About to retort sharply, I suddenly realized that I was smiling. Without a word I rose to my feet, got my hat, and left the office.

  “Don’t forget,” he called after me, “we’ve got a date at one o’clock.”

  The door had already swung shut behind me.

  Twenty-two

  “WELL,” FRIEDMAN SAID HEAVILY, sailing the lab report across the conference table to Mel Segal from the D.A.’s office. “The lab boys and the coroner really weren’t very helpful. They told us what we already knew: that the shears inflicted the neck wound, but that the traditional round, blunt instrument did the actual damage. Also, they couldn’t find any trace of blood on either the suspect’s clothing or his hands. And so far, no one’s been able to locate the round blunt instrument.”

  “Are you sure the suspect couldn’t have changed his clothes?” Segal asked, adjusting a pair of heavy horned-rimmed reading glasses.

  “He could have, but he didn’t. At least two neighbors have said that he wore the same…”

  Behind me, the conference room phone buzzed discreetly. Murmuring an apology, I picked up the phone. “Lieutenant Hastings,” I said softly.

  “It’s Canelli, Lieutenant. Say, I know I shouldn’t be bothering you right now. And I been thinking about it for five or ten minutes, at least. We’ve notified the black-and-white cars, and everything. But I thought you ought to know.”

  “Ought to know what, Canelli?” I asked wearily.

  “That David Fisher’s come up missing. He was supposed to come home from school for lunch, and he didn’t show. So his mother checked, and he never made it to school. So naturally, she’s all upset. And like I say, it’s on the air, and I made sure that Manley gave it a little extra heat. But I thought that—”

  “Where are you?”

  “At my desk.”

  “Get the car. I’ll meet you out in front.”

  As we pulled up in front of the Fisher house, I saw Bill Fisher just entering his own front door. Canelli set the parking brake and I cleared our car with Communications.

  As we walked to the door Canelli was saying, “You don’t suppose the kid was telling the truth all the time, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “What about yesterday morning, though? What if he really did see the dark guy who’d been in the park? I mean, with the lab tests negative and everything, it’s beginning to look like a different ball game.” He hesitated. “Isn’t it?”

  I sighed. “When I figure it out, Canelli, I promise you’ll be the first to know.” I pressed the Fishers’ bell, avoiding Canelli’s moist, reproachful stare.

  The door came quickly open. Today Marge Fisher’s hair was disarranged, her make-up hastily and haphazardly applied. She wore denim slacks and a brightly flowered blouse.

  “Have you found him?” she demanded. She stood squarely before us, as if to bar our entrance.

  “Not yet, Mrs. Fisher. Have you heard anything?”

  She shook her head sharply. Her eyes were very bright. Her mouth twitched. “No. Nothing.”

  I nodded toward the inside hallway. “May we come in?”

  “Oh. Yes.” She stepped aside grudgingly. Bill Fisher, wearing slacks and a khaki jacket, was seated in the same chair he’d occupied Monday evening when we’d first come to the house.

  Gripping the chair-arms, Fisher half rose. “Did you get him?”

  “No. But we will.”

  As Canelli and I sat on the couch, the woman perched uncomfortably on a straight-backed chair. Immediately she clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Her painfully corded throat moved convulsively as she swallowed repeatedly. Her eyes moved constantly around the room, distractedly—as if she were looking for escape.

  “But where could he have gone?” Fisher was saying. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “Have you got a guess?” I asked.

  His harried glance seemed almost furtive as he looked at me, then quickly away. His big-knuckled fist softly banged the arm of the chair, absently beating out a frustrated, furious rhythm. “If that kid’s run off,” he said dully, “I swear to God I’ll—I’ll—” Mouth working impotently, he couldn’t finish it.

  “Do you think he ran away?”

  Bill Fisher’s only answer was a sharp, savage head-shake. “I don’t know.” His words and gestures were angry, but his eyes looked frightened.
His manliness couldn’t sustain a show of fear—only anger.

  “What about you, Mrs. Fisher?” I asked, turning to face her. “Do you think he ran away?”

  “I don’t know either,” she mumbled, avoiding looking at me. “I—I just don’t understand it.” She glanced toward her husband. Fisher was still tapping impotently at the arm of the chair.

  “Do you mind if we look in David’s room?”

  Both shrugged in desultory unison, not looking at each other. Responding to my nod, Canelli got to his feet and headed for the hallway.

  Dropping my voice to a more authoritative note, I said, “You’re both going to have to cooperate with me, you know, if we’re going to find David.”

  The woman licked her lips. Obviously exerting a desperate effort of will, she finally met my eyes. “Wh—what d’you want to know?” Her voice was dull, her eyes dead.

  “I want to know, for a start, what you think happened to David. Was he unhappy about his uncle’s being in custody—abnormally unhappy? Did he threaten to run away?”

  She shook her head doggedly. “No,” she said in a low, defeated voice. “No, he didn’t threaten to run away.”

  “Was he unhappy—terribly unhappy?”

  She nodded silently. Plainly, she was exhausted, drained. She sat slack in the narrow chair—shoulders hunched, legs slung out at odd, apathetic angles. Her hands now lay listless in her lap.

  “Was he…”

  “He blames it all on us,” Fisher suddenly blurted. “Everything—the whole goddamn thing. Last night he was hysterical. She won’t admit it, but he was. He locked himself in his room and he was carrying on like some—some raving maniac, or something. He was like a—a wild child. I finally had to break the door in. And when I got inside, he—he backed away from me, screaming, until finally he was all jammed into a corner, like he—he was some kind of an animal in a cage, or something. It—” He drew a deep, unsteady breath. His eyes were tear-glazed. “It was terrible,” he finally finished. “Just terrible. He even said that he—he wished he was dead. He—he said he wanted to die.”