by Dorien Grey
“Not right now, thanks,” I said, getting up from the table, and I was so preoccupied that not even my crotch picked up on it until I was halfway up the stairs.
*
The very idea that someone might make a copy of their suicide note really got to me, but then from what I knew of Morgan Butler, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. The question was, where was it now? Would Morgan have torn it out of the notebook and put it with the other copies of his letters? For some reason, I doubted it. This wasn’t like his other letters, for one thing. It was the most revealing thing Morgan Butler ever wrote about himself. No, I had the strong feeling that he would have left the note right there in the notebook. His novels were a secret part of himself; I believed Morgan would have wanted his final note to be the coda to his secret life. Evan found it and took it, like he had taken everything else.
The more I thought of how Evan Knight had systematically gone about erasing as much as he could of another human’s identity, the angrier I became. That last note had been Morgan’s only direct admission of being gay. He had, albeit in one of his last acts on earth, finally opened his closet door. And Knight had robbed him even of that.
I wondered if Evan Knight ever gave one split-second’s thought to what he had done to another man’s dignity? I doubted it. He simply had done his best to remove any possible link between Morgan and the books Evan had published under his own name, and Morgan’s being gay was one of those links.
To be honest, I really wouldn’t have thought Knight was that smart to go to all that trouble. If there was only one copy of the manuscripts, and he had them, why should he care if someone found out Morgan was gay? Granted, there were a few oblique links between the letters and the books—and the little-old-lady-in-the-fog story, of course—though the chance of anyone picking up on them was extremely remote. It wasn’t as though people would be standing in line to read the letters of some to-all-appearances average Joe. His father’s papers would get a lot more attention simply because of who Jeremy Butler was. As Collin Butler had said, his grandfather was an important and famous man. His father was not.
But I realized, too, that Morgan Butler’s papers just might have attracted more interest if it were known that he was gay, and the chance was therefore greater that someone might stumble on Knight’s secret as Taylor Cates apparently had. So maybe Knight was sharper than I gave him credit for being. But part of me still doubted it.
*
I had a message from Glen O’Banyon’s secretary waiting on my machine when I returned to the office, asking me to call, which I did immediately. I was told he was in a meeting with a client, but would call me back as soon as he was finished.
I hung up the phone, sat back in my chair, and let my mind take over.
This was probably one of the most convoluted and ultimately frustrating cases I’d had in a long, long time.
And as so often happens with me, a new thought bubbled to the surface of my mind, like a gas bubble in a tar pit.
Taylor Cates was dead, and I had been going on the assumption, all this time, that he had been murdered, most probably by Evan Knight, to cover up Taylor’s somehow-discovery that Knight had stolen Morgan’s work. But the fact that Cates had been working on the Butler papers…and, specifically from what I could tell, on Morgan Butler’s papers…for only about a week and a half before he was killed finally sank in. What could he have found in that time, especially since the missing letters had obviously been taken long before he even started? Taylor couldn’t have taken them…Dave Witherspoon had been working on them first, and I’d checked both his and Taylor’s cataloging notes against the remaining letters, and everything matched. Even if he had, as Dave Witherspoon said, been nosing around Morgan’s papers while Dave was working on them, it’s unlikely he would have risked trying to take anything.
So it was entirely possible that Taylor’s death had nothing to do with Morgan Butler’s papers.
Great! Now you think of it! my mind said with more than a touch of disgust.
I didn’t have a single shred of direct evidence to prove that Knight was the murderer. I did have pretty solid proof that he had stolen Morgan’s work, but what could I do with it? The only person who had a legal right to go after Knight for plagiarism, as far as I could tell, was Collin Butler, and I strongly suspected that he would want nothing whatever to do with claiming any rights to his father’s books, even though a considerable amount of money was involved. On the contrary, I was pretty sure his homophobia would keep him from wanting it even known that his father wrote them.
For Taylor to have deduced from his reading of the letters remaining in the file that Morgan was gay is hardly surprising. I think anybody good at reading between the lines would easily make the connection. Even if none of the letters were missing, it would be impossible to say with certainty. But Morgan’s last note was the “smoking gun,” which removed any doubt.
So if Knight had taken the last note with the rest of the missing letters, why would he have had to kill Taylor? Taylor might have figured out enough to have caused Knight considerable embarrassment, and might even have been able to make himself a considerable nuisance. But I just couldn’t see it as a solid motive for murder. I know, murderers often have their own peculiar logic, but still…
The ringing of the phone jolted me back to the real world.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Dick, Glen. How are things going with the investigation?”
I sighed. “Funny you should ask,” I said, and gave him a Reader’s Digest version of where things stood at the moment. I tried to keep it limited to the facts and leave out my ruminations, but the end result was the same: I was pretty much going nowhere fast.
“Ah,” O’Banyon said when I’d finished. “I was afraid of that. We had a board meeting last night, and Zach Clanton was demanding we pull the plug. That man acts as though every nickel the Burrows spends is coming directly out of his own pocket. He keeps pointing to the fact that if the medical examiner and the police consider Taylor’s death an accident, we should accept it and get on with our lives. I told the board I’d call you today to check. So what do you think?”
“I don’t know, Glen. I can see his point, I guess, but I really do believe Taylor’s death was no accident. If the board wants to pull the plug, I’ll understand. But knowing me, I think I’ll keep going. I don’t like just giving up.”
“I understand. And I’m pretty sure I can hold Zach off a while longer.”
“I appreciate that, Glen. I do have a couple other things I want to follow up on.”
“That’s fine. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
“I won’t. And thanks.”
We said our good-byes and hung up, and I went back to my thoughts.
*
One of the things I wanted to check on was Dave Witherspoon’s new car and his trips to Cancun, and I’d start with the car first. I was sure he couldn’t be making all that much money at the Burrows, and I remember him saying his father had worked in the coal mines, so that pretty much ruled out a wealthy family. It might have been possible if he and his partner Ryan shared their incomes. I didn’t have any idea of what kind of work Ryan did, but I know two incomes made a big difference for Jonathan and me…especially since Joshua joined the family. But still….
I took out the phone book and looked up Dave’s address. On the assumption that he might not return to work after his doctor’s appointment, I left work early and took a drive to the address listed. It was in an area of older apartment buildings much like our own, with mostly on-street parking. I drove up and down the street for a couple of blocks in either direction, then did a figure-eight of the surrounding streets, looking for a white Datsun 280zx—it would be hard to miss—but I didn’t see one. On a hunch, I then drove through the alley behind Dave’s building. Directly behind it was a small six-space parking lot, and sure enough, one of the spaces held the Datsun. I slowed down enough to check, and I
hoped, memorize the license plate number, then drove home.
*
I’ve always been pretty good about leaving my work at work, and I get irked with myself when for some reason I can’t do it. The fact that during our group hug that evening I was thinking about who took Morgan’s suicide note did not bode well for the evening, and sure enough, I spent the majority of the night thinking about the case to the degree that even Joshua noticed it. I was sitting there staring blankly at the TV, my mind a million miles away, when Joshua climbed up on the couch beside me and stood up so he could bend over and whisper in my ear, “Can I have another cookie?”
When without thinking I offhandedly said, “Sure,” he jumped off the couch and ran into the kitchen. The next thing I heard was a piteous “But Uncle Dick said I could!” followed by Jonathan’s stern, “Well, Uncle Dick was wrong. You know it’s almost bedtime.”
Damn! I’d lost track of time again. But I had to give Joshua credit for recognizing an opening when he saw it.
And Jonathan, bless his heart, recognized that I was preoccupied, and after putting Joshua to bed and reading to him until he fell asleep and going to bed ourselves, devised another form of distraction which totally took my mind off everything but what was happening at the moment. Afterwards, completely happy and relaxed, I felt myself drifting off to sleep.
Okay, so let’s shift focus from Evan Knight to Dave Witherspoon, my mind began.
Damn!
*
As soon as I was sure the DMV was open in the morning, I called my contact Bil (yeah, only one l—that’s the way he spells it) Dunham, gave him the Datsun’s license plate number and asked him to check it out for me. He called back within half an hour to tell me the car was indeed registered to Dave Witherspoon, that there were no liens against it, which meant he’d paid cash, and had been purchased new four months ago.
Four months ago? That was way before the Burrows ever opened, while the collection was still at the Burrows estate.
Yes, another observed, but so was Dave Witherspoon.
Nothing like being slapped in the back of the head with a shovel! It all fell into place! Witherspoon had started working for the Foundation while Knight was still in Europe. Knight had no idea at the time that there would even be a separate library. I’m sure he didn’t anticipate anyone going through the Butler papers in his absence. He may well have left some key clue among Morgan’s papers that Witherspoon picked up on.
Knight obviously had taken Morgan’s manuscripts some time before—he’d started publishing them while Chester Burrows was still alive—but it might not have occurred to him at that time to take the letters as well, and by the time he got back from Europe, Witherspoon was already cataloging and recording them. It would have been next to impossible for Evan to take them at that point. However, it would have been simple enough for Witherspoon to take the letters he wanted and just record the ones he left. He could very well have made a connection to the books being published under Evan’s name and taken the letters himself to try to cash in on some of Knight’s undeserved fame and fortune.
But regardless of who took the letters, Witherspoon undoubtedly found out what Knight was up to, and decided to blackmail him—where else might he have come by the money for two trips to Cancun and a new car?
Okay, so taking almost every letter in which Morgan referred to the fact that he was writing would be one thing: why take the letters that might hint at Morgan’s being gay? Witherspoon had denied he had any idea of Morgan’s homosexuality, but it was hard not to see it even in the letters remaining in the Collection. Putting together Morgan’s references to his writing and the obvious undertones of homosexuality in his letters to Scot, making the connection would be a lot easier for almost anyone to pick up on.
Uh, yeah, a mind-voice said, but if Knight were going to kill somebody, wouldn’t it be Witherspoon? Taylor Cates is the one who’s dead.
*
Okay, having, in my own mind if nowhere else, established a fairly firm case for Dave Witherspoon being a blackmailer, what about the possibility of his being a killer to boot? I rather hated to give up on the idea that Knight was the killer, and of course I wouldn’t, completely. Again I was boldly striding into Terra Incognita armed only with speculations and theories, but I had to follow it through. Dave and Taylor had a long history of mutual antagonism. Taylor had managed to get Dave fired, and Dave believed it was so Taylor could take over cataloging the Butler papers. However, if Witherspoon had found out about Knight’s theft, he couldn’t be sure Taylor wouldn’t find it, too. He may have killed Taylor to forestall that possibility. And as a bonus for eliminating Taylor, he was pretty much guaranteed to get his job back and continue whatever it was he was doing on the side.
Taylor was by all accounts a pretty savvy guy. When he took over the Butler cataloging from Dave, he might very well have figured out that some letters were obviously missing from the file of a guy so anally retentive that he kept copies of everything he wrote. And from there it wouldn’t be too great a leap to make a connection to the books Evan Knight was claiming to be his own.
Desperate situations calling for desperate solutions, I decided that if I ever hoped to untangle this mess of maybes and what-ifs, the most direct way was to confront Evan Knight with what I knew. I certainly didn’t expect a confession, and I knew I was putting myself at strong risk, if he had killed Taylor Cates, of being his next potential target. But the more I thought about it, the less reason I saw for him to have killed Taylor—unless, of course, Taylor had made the connection and Knight figured it was easier to kill him than to have two people know his secret.
Being more than a little foolhardy but not totally stupid, I also decided to cover my ass by having a talk first with one of my contacts at police headquarters. I knew I could trust either Marty Gresham or Mark Richman, Craig’s father, to keep what I told them confidential until I was able to provide them with the proof they’d need that a crime had been committed—in this case, two crimes—plagiarism and murder. I knew of course that plagiarism was hardly in the same league as murder, and I wasn’t even sure if you could go to jail for it. But I knew you could go to civil court over it, and I knew that Knight would not only be discredited but very likely forced to repay the money the books had earned—to whom, I also wasn’t sure.
I’d not talked to either Marty or Mark in some time, and I knew that both were always very busy with their jobs. However, as a lieutenant in the Administrative Division, Mark Richman had even more responsibilities and things to worry about than Marty, who had recently made detective in the Homicide Division. I knew putting Marty on to a possible murder would definitely pique his interest, but I felt I could trust him to give me the leeway I needed rather than trying to jump in immediately.
I looked at my watch and saw it was ten thirty. Picking up the phone, I dialed the City Annex, which housed the police department headquarters, and asked to speak to Detective Marty Gresham. I had no idea if he’d be in or on a case somewhere, but luck was with me and after a moment’s pause I heard Marty’s voice, “Detective Gresham.”
“Marty!” I said: “It’s Dick Hardesty.”
“Dick!” he said, sounding as if he were sincerely happy to hear from me. “It’s been a long time! What’s up?”
“I’ve got something going on I wanted you to know about, just in case. Any chance you might be free for lunch?”
“Sure. We just finished up a case and I’ve got a stack of paperwork to get done, but I can spare a few minutes.”
“Your wife still packing your lunch?”
I could almost hear him grin. “Not since the baby came—which is about the last time I heard from you, as I recall.”
I realized with some surprise that he was right. I’d called to congratulate him when I heard he’d had a little girl, but that was…well, several months ago.
“Sorry to say you’re right,” I said. “How’s the baby doing?”
“I’ll show you her picture w
hen I see you. Etheridge’s okay? Noon?”
“Etheridge’s is fine. See you there.”
*
I arrived at Etheridge’s at about 11:50, hoping to beat the crowd and get a table. I was just finishing my first cup of coffee when Marty walked in. I almost didn’t recognize him out of his uniform, but now that he was a detective he got to wear street clothes. And he surely did look good in them. He came over, hand extended, and after we’d shaken, sat down across from me.
“So, what’s going on?” he asked, picking up the menu the waiter had left for him. I knew he was on a tight time schedule, so I didn’t mind his getting right to the point.
I sketched it all out for him: Taylor Cates’ apparently accidental death and the background of everything going on at the Burrows that led me to suspect that it was not an accident. He, not surprisingly, had never heard of Evan Knight…or of Jeremy Butler, for that matter.
My narrative was interrupted briefly while the waiter came with Marty’s coffee, took our orders, and again, while I was still talking, when he brought our food.
“So,” I said, finally wrapping it all up. “I’ve got three things going on here at the same time…plagiarism, blackmail, and murder. I have pretty positive evidence to support the plagiarism, but the ‘evidence’ for blackmail is mostly circumstantial, and solid evidence for the murder is totally nonexistent at this point. Since the one thing I know without question is that Evan Knight is the key element, I’ve decided to approach him with what I’ve figured out, in hopes that might somehow break some sort of solid evidence loose from the logjam that exists now.”
Marty, who’d been largely silent, eating and drinking his coffee as I talked, put down his cup and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“You’re taking a pretty big risk, here,” he said. “You could end up getting yourself killed.”
I shrugged. “Which is exactly why I’m talking to you. I intend to let Knight know that I’ve told you—I won’t mention your name, obviously—so that just in case he may think of trying something, he’ll know he can’t get away with it.”
