Trophies and Dead Things

by Marcia Muller

  By now I felt mostly numb. My guilt at failing to protect Hank had dulled; nobody—not the folks at All Souls, Greg, Anne-Marie herself—blamed me. Even my dread at what the outcome of his surgery might be was curiously deadened. In spite of the people around us and the occasional arrival of other victims of crime or accident, it was as if we were trapped in an emotional vacuum, deprived of all but the slightest of sensory stimuli.

  At around three-fifteen Greg came through the swinging doors. He didn’t look much better than Anne-Marie; his impassive cop’s façade had cracked, leaving his face ashen, his eyes worried. He sat down next to me and took the hand Anne-Marie wasn’t holding, then put his arm around me so he could pat her on the shoulder.

  “Any word?”

  I shook my head.

  “Chest wounds—sometimes they look worse than they are.”

  “He’s been in there a long time.”

  Anne-Marie’s fingers tightened again, and I realized what I’d said wasn’t helping her any. “I’m sure he’s going to be okay, though,” I added. “It’s just that there was so much blood, and Hank—well, unconscious isn’t a state you associate with him.” Oh, God, I was only making it worse! Shut up! I told myself.

  Anne-Marie said, “Stop worrying about me, Shar. I know it’s bad, but I can handle it. You’ve got every right to be shaken up. You love Hank, too.”

  We fell silent then. Behind us a baby began to cry. Its screams rose to a crescendo that made me want to scream, too. Finally the mother took it outside.

  I realized Greg hadn’t mentioned the sniper. “Were you able to talk to him?”

  He didn’t have to ask who I meant. “Briefly. He was conscious and lucid; you shot him high up in the shoulder, no serious damage done. From what he admitted to me, it was pretty much as you theorized, and what he wouldn’t tell me I’d already gotten form Letterman.” Greg had received the information on John Weldon only minutes before he’d caught the call about Hanks’ shooting.

  Odd that I felt so little curiosity about the man I’d pursued and wounded. It took an effort to say, “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s a superpatriot. Was an army CID office in ‘Nam. Apparently he developed a James Bond complex, spied on people he considered subversive or disloyal. From what he admitted to me, he became obsessed—‘justifiable concerned’ is how he put it—with the ‘peacenik’ group that hung out at the Rouge et Noir. Followed them, documented what he considered their transgressions.”

  “But he wasn’t doing that officially?”

  “No. When he tried to pass the information along to his superior officers, he was told to stick to his job. That only made him more fanatical, and eventually they decided to transfer him stateside. He was discharge in seventy-two, and shortly afterward he suffered the first of several breakdowns. Since then he’s spent most of his life in V.A. hospitals, but six months ago he seemed to be cured, and was released on the condition that he continue with outpatient counseling at Letterman. From there it happened just about the way you thought it might have.”

  For a while I didn’t speak, staring down at the checkerboard pattern of the linoleum. Anne-Marie’s hand was limp; for all I knew she might not have been listening to Greg’s description of the man who had shot her husband.

  Finally I said, “We’re only now beginning to fully realize what that war did to us. It destroyed a lot more people than those who died in Asia. And it didn’t discriminate—dove, hawk, civilian, military, American, Vietnamese. All of us were wounded one way or another—”

  Suddenly Anne-Marie’s fingers clenched mine. I looked at her and she was starring at a surgeon in blood-spattered scrubs who had come through the doors and was conferring with the nurse at the desk. She motioned toward us, and he started over, but Anne-Marie stood and hurried to him. They spoke briefly, then she turned to Greg and me, her face, if anything, more drawn.

  “He’s out of surgery,” she said. “They’re going to let me see him.”

  I asked, “Will he be—”

  “They don’t know yet. It could be hours. Why don’t you and Greg go home, get some rest.”

  “No, we’ll—”

  “Please, Shar. After I see him, I think I want to be alone for a while.”

  I nodded, feeling unreasonably shut out and rejected. Anne-Marie followed the surgeon out of the waiting room.

  She does blame me, I thought.

  After a bit Greg asked, “You okay?”

  I made a motion with my hand that was meant to indicate yes. What it said was “only marginally.”

  “Come on.” He stood, tugging at my other hand. “I’ll drive you home.”

  “No, to All Souls. My car’s still there.”

  He pulled me from the chair, put both hands on my shoulders, and looked into my eyes for a long moment. Whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded and led me out to his unmarked car.

  Whenever I am very upset, I head for water. In fact, the one and only time I ran away from home, I packed a small wicker basket with my stuffed kangaroo, some Uncle Scrooge comic books, and three peanut-butter sandwiches and to the bus—transferring twice—to a beach my family frequented. My father found me there hours later and drove me home.

  So at four-thirty that morning—driven by depression and a fear of finding reporters camped on my doorstep—I went to Point Lobos and sat in the foggy pre-dawn on the edge of the ruins of the old Sutro Baths, staring to sea at the hazy outlines of the Seal Rocks.

  The area out there between Land’s End and Ocean Beach is normally infested with tour buses and RVs—which in my opinion take up far more than their fair share of God’s earth—but at that hour on a foggy, drizzly morning it was deserted except for a few early joggers, dog walkers, and me. I could smell the sea odors, hear the sea lions; foghorns up by the Gate answered their cries. Sitting on the wet foundations of what was once an aquatic playground on the edge of the Pacific, unheedful of the chill and dampness of the seat of my pants, I gave some thought to the way that things should be, and the way that they are.

  People should lead productive lives, pursuing—if never catching—the myth of happiness. All of those should-nots happen, over and over again. As a people we profess to hold lofty ideals—equality, peace, stop the killing, save the whales—but given what I’d seen in my career, I’d begun to wonder how many of us truly believe them. Or believe in their feasibility, the human animal being what it is . . .

  The sky was lighter now, but the fog showed now signs of lifting. I could make out the rocks where the sea lions raised their heads and bellowed, but not the line of the horizon. Although it promised to be a gray Friday, I kept sitting here, waiting for some hopeful sign. After a while, when none was forthcoming, I got up and took myself home for a couple of hours of sleep.

  My sleep was restless and when I woke around nine, I felt even more depressed—a victim both of the persistent fog and the dreadful events of the night before. Unlike last Saturday morning, the dream I’d had before waking came back immediately, with disturbing clarity.

  I’d been seated among a crowd in a large auditorium, and on the stage a distinguished man in scholar’s robes was giving out diplomas. Perry Hilderly stepped up to the podium, dressed not in the traditional cap and gown, but in a glittering suit of gilt armor. The man presented his piece of parchment, praising Perry’s intelligence. Then Perry faced the crowd and held the diploma aloft; the parchment was tattered around its edges. Instantly I knew it had been gnawed by rats.

  As I recalled the dream, my flesh rippled unpleasantly, and I drew my quilts higher against the chill in the room and within myself. I ought to check my paperback on dreams to figure out what this one was all about. But did I really want to know?

  Fortunately I had little time to dwell on dreams this morning. It was already late, and I wanted to call the hospital and check on Hank. Then I needed to go to the Hall of Justice and sign the statement I’d given Greg in the car the night before; he’d said it woul
d be ready by ten. And after that I wanted to track down my private investigator friend, to see if he had indeed been the one who looked into Jenny Ruhl’s background for Jess Goodhue.

  So many places to go, so many things to do. So many ways to keep my mind off worrying about Hank.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Patient Information told me that Hank was still in intensive care, his condition critical but stable. That covered too wide a range of possibilities to offer me any reassurance, so I tried unsuccessfully to reach Anne-Marie. No one at All Souls knew any more than I did. In the end I set off for the Hall of Justice in an apprehensive frame of mind, with a headache from too little sleep and a case of the shakes from too much coffee.

  McFate was not in the squad room, even though his suit coat—a blue pinstripe today—hung on the foolish little rack beside his desk. That, I thought, could be considered the first positive circumstance of the day. I had nothing to say to the inspector, but I was sure he would have had plenty to say to me—most of it barbs about my abilities as a bodyguard, and none of it praise for apprehending the sniper.

  As promised, Greg had my statement on his desk. I read through it slowly, made a couple of changes, initialed them, and added my signature.

  I said, “There it is, all wrapped up. I kept thinking I had some connection with Hilderly and his will, but it didn’t.”

  Greg was shuffling papers, his brow creased in annoyance, and didn’t reply. I got up to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, motioning for me to shut the door.

  I did so, then sat down again.

  “I located all the heirs, and then one was killed—but you know that.”

  “Grant.”

  “Right. I told McFate I thought there might be a connection between his death and Hilderly’s will. Didn’t he mention that to you?”

  “Only to say he’d found it wasn’t relevant. Apparently he’s seriously looking at a couple of Grant’s clients.” Greg paused, his frown turning to a scowl. “Brief me on what you’ve found out about the heirs’ connection to Hilderly.”

  I did, trying not to omit any details, however tenuous. Greg made a few notes as I talked, then studied then before speaking.

  “Interesting thing,” he finally said. “That gun you brought in for identification—the lab called about it yesterday evening. Technician who owes me a favor processed it on overtime. I initiated a check on the serial number, and the information’s come back.”

  “And?”

  “Gun’s one of a half dozen that were stolen from a shop in the Outer Mission in February of sixty-nine. Four of them were found on the persons of a radical group that attempted to bomb the weapons station at Port Chicago the next August: Taylor, Ruhl, and Heikkinen. A fifth was used in the suicide of Ruhl several months later.”

  I drew in my breath, let it out in a long sigh. “And Hilderly had the sixth. I wonder if they actually stole them?”

  “Our data’s not complete enough to tell.”

  “Doesn’t really matter. What I’d like to know more about is that bombing attempt and the trial. FBI made the arrests?”

  Greg nodded.

  “And it would have been a federal prosecution. Probably it would be easier and quicker if I did some library research than if I persuaded you to request information through channels.”

  “That’s really out of the scope of your investigation for All Souls, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “It’ll keep my mind off worrying about Hank.”

  “Well, as long as you’re determined to research it, keep me posted. McFate’s probably right about Grant being killed by a disgruntled client, but I still don’t like him not following up on all lines of inquiry.”

  “And if he’s wrong about it being irrelevant, you’ll use it as ammunition against him.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I’d better let you get back to work.” I stood up and Greg walked me to the door. “By the way,” I added, “how did McFate take to my collaring the sniper?”

  “Not too well. Huffed about civilians treading on departmental territory—as if it mattered who collared him. Actually he seemed relieved that the Hilderly slaying was solved; maybe he didn’t completely believe in the lack of relevance of that will to Grant’s death. And right after that he took off.” Greg glanced across the squad room, where McFate’s suit coast still hung on the brass rack. “Frankly, I’m getting annoyed at the way he keeps disappearing.”

  “Where do you suppose he is?”

  “Not far away. Usually he puts on his jacket just to go to the can.”

  “Well, I think I’ll get out of here before he comes back.”

  Greg grinned and went back into his office. I rode the elevator down to the lobby and joined the line in front of the pay phones.

  The lobby was crowded and noisy, the sounds of footfalls and voices reverberating off the marble walls. Cops in uniform passed by, going to the elevators of the Southern police station, housed just beyond the security station at the entrance. Attorneys in sober suits and carrying briefcases strode toward the municipal courtrooms on the building’s eastern side. A poorly dressed man on the uncertain edge of sobriety was eating a sandwich on one of the marble benches. The roles of the other participants in the unfolding drama of justice were less easy to define: Was the sharply dressed black man over by the concession stand a pusher, pimp, or parole office? Was the woman in the smart black business suit a prosecution witness or a defendant facing charges of prostitution? I spotted another woman with punked-up purple hair wearing tattered jeans and a dirty T-shirt, and recognized her as a nark Greg had once introduced me too.

  As I waited for a phone booth to free up, I shifted from foot to foot, listening to snatches of conversation.

  “. . . Hon, I tole you we gonna get the bail money . . . ”

  “ . . . case has been continued until next Thursday, so you’ll have to shift my calendar around . . .”

  “ . . . Babe, it’s me. If you get home before I do, stick that roast in the microwave so it’ll defrost . . . ”

  . . . Can we still make the early edition . . .?”

  When the man with the frozen roast relinquished his phone, I stepped into the booth and dialed Patient Information at S.F. General. No change in Hank’s condition. Then I called All Souls for my messages; there were three from media people—none of whom was Goodhue. In light of the fact that she knew me personally, I found it odd that the anchorwoman hadn’t tried to contact me for an exclusive story for one of KSTS’s reporters on collaring the sniper. Perhaps her resistance to turning the investigator’s name over to me had its roots in more than being too busy to look for it? But I couldn’t imagine what.

  A fourth message, however, was the one I’d been hoping for—from Wolf. I dropped two more dimes into the slot and punched out his office number. He answered on the first ring.

  “Well, Sharon, “he said when I identified myself. “What’s up?”

  “Do you recall a client named Jess Goodhue? The TV news anchorwoman? The job would have been a background check on her mother, Jenny Ruhl, a few years ago—”

  “Sure, I remember. What about her?”

  “She’s peripherally involved in a case I’m working, and I need to take a look at your report on the investigation. It’s okay with Goodhue,” I added, since I didn’t really know that it wasn’t, “but she’s too busy to contact you, so I thought I’d go ahead and request it myself.”

  “Funny.”

  “How so?”

  “She called Tuesday morning and asked for a copy of the report. Picked it up that afternoon.”

  So Goodhue, like Ross, had been lying to me. But why didn’t she want me to know she already had the report? I said, “And now I’m unable to reach her. I know that technically you shouldn’t give me a copy without her permission, but what are my chances of getting to look at it?”

  “Depends. Why do you need it?”

  I explained about the Hilderly case,
stressing our need to know that Perry had not been under duress or undue influence at the time he made his holograph will.

  Wolf said, “Well, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t have a copy, since you say that Jess Goodhue has already agreed to that. I can’t get to it until this afternoon, though. If you want I’ll drop it off at All Souls around four.”

  His mention of All Souls made me realize that Wolf—who makes a point of avoiding the often depressing contents of the morning paper—probably knew nothing about what had gone on there the night before. By the time I’d finished telling him that story, my rage at the sniper had been rekindled, and when Wolf expressed his regrets about Hank being shot, I could hear some of the same anger in his voice.

  Before I hung up, I thought to ask one more question. “I don’t suppose you recall what you found out about Goodhue’s mother?”