by Dorien Grey
His enthusiasm reminded me again of just how much alike he and Joshua were.
*
The phone rang just as I was finishing the crossword puzzle and thinking about having another cup of coffee.
“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, picking up the phone, as always, on the second ring.
I recognized Glen O’Banyon’s voice immediately. “We have another one,” he said, and I didn’t have to ask “another what?” I knew.
Shit!
CHAPTER 12
“Who?” I asked, though I had a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that said I knew.
“Dave Witherspoon,” he said. “A passing patrol car found him around one o’clock this morning on the front steps of the Burrows. I don’t know any other details right now. I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks, Glen,” I said. “I’ll see what I can find out and get back to you. Are you in court today or at the office?”
“I’ll be in the office most of the day. And I’ll let you know if I find out anything more.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll get right on it.”
We exchanged good-byes and hung up.
What had been a queasy feeling in my stomach washed through my entire body and I couldn’t help but listen to a very strong mind-voice which said, Congratulations, Hardesty—you just got Dave Witherspoon killed!
Damn it, Hardesty, the voice continued. Why in the hell don’t you think before you open your mouth? Not only did you have to tell Knight you knew he was being blackmailed, but you had to say you knew it was Dave Witherspoon. And then you had to go and all but paint a bull’s-eye on the guy’s back by suggesting that Witherspoon wouldn’t hesitate to turn him in if he thought it would help himself. Truly stupid!
But talk about being truly stupid, how could Knight have been so dumb as to go out and kill the guy within twelve hours of me telling him I knew what was going on? That just didn’t make any sense. I tried to make myself feel better by telling myself I really hadn’t thought of Knight as a murderer. And why? Just because I didn’t think he killed Taylor Cates? Like that made a bit of difference now.
Sheesh!
*
I knew that there was a good chance that Tim, as assistant medical examiner, would be working on Witherspoon’s body, or at least that he would be able to tell me what the autopsy found, but I also knew they probably couldn’t have found much yet, even if they’d begun their examination. Still, I called Tim’s work number and left a message asking him to call.
I next called the City Annex and asked to talk to Marty Gresham. I was told he was out on a case, but left my number for when he returned.
I needn’t have bothered, because I’d no sooner hung up the phone than it rang.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Dick, it’s Marty. We need to talk.”
“I know,” I said. “Dave Witherspoon, right?”
“You heard, then?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
“Can you come out here to the Burrows, then? Right away?’
“Sure,” I said. “I’m on my way.”
*
The front of the Burrows was cordoned off, and a hastily made sign saying “Please use side entrance” had been placed, like the announcement of a garage sale, on the outside of the yellow tape near the sidewalk. There were no police cars around, and no one standing inside the cordoned-off area.
I parked in the side lot, and used the side door to get into the building. It was very quiet, even for a library, and for a moment I wondered if anyone was there. There were a few people in the main room of the first floor, though, apparently going through their normal routines, so I continued down to the cataloging room. The door, of course, was closed, but looking through the window I saw Janice and two or three of the other workers at their tables, going through the motions of working. However, even through the closed door, I could sense a different atmosphere in the room.
I didn’t see Marty or McGill, or anyone else whom I hadn’t seen there before, so headed up to Irving McGill’s office. As I approached, I could hear voices from inside. I knocked.
“Yes?” McGill’s deep voice responded, and I turned the knob and opened the door. McGill was behind his desk, with two men seated in front of him with their backs to me. They both turned around and I saw it was Marty and some guy who looked vaguely familiar, but who I didn’t think I’d met before.
The unknown man, who looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of True Detective Magazine, immediately got out of his chair and said to McGill: “Well, I think we’re through here for the moment.” Marty also rose to his feet. “Thank you for your cooperation,” the guy continued. “We’ll be in contact again if we need anything else. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to talk with Mr. Hardesty.”
Both he and Marty turned toward me, ready to leave, as McGill also got out of his chair. “If you would like to talk here,” McGill said, “I really have many things to do in other parts of the library. You’re free to use my office. No one will disturb you.”
“Thanks,” the guy said. “If you’re sure it won’t be any trouble.”
McGill gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not at all,” he said, moving toward the door. “Take as long as you need.”
He passed me with a nod of his head, and left, closing the door behind him.
“Dick,” Marty said moving toward me for our usual handshake, while indicating the other detective, “this is Detective Carpenter.”
Carpenter? I knew a Detective Carpenter on the force, but this certainly wasn’t him.
The man stepped forward to shake hands. Apparently my confusion showed, because he grinned as he took my hand. “You know my brother, I understand,” he said, “…and his partner, Detective Couch.”
Aha! I thought. Yes, I did indeed know detectives Carpenter and Couch. I’d had dealings with them on several past cases. Carpenter was a decent guy I rather liked. Couch was a homophobic asshole with a capital A.
“You’ve heard about our encounters, I gather,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” he said, still grinning. “You are not one of Detective Couch’s favorite people.”
“And you can’t imagine how upset I am over that,” I said, returning the grin.
Marty crossed the room for another chair, which he brought over for me, then turned the other two chairs around so we could sit facing one another.
After we’d all been seated, I jumped right in. “So what happened?”
Detective Carpenter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“A patrol found the body this morning around one a.m., though the actual time of death hasn’t been determined. It’s a pretty quiet area, with not a lot of traffic at night. He apparently fell backwards down the front stairs. He was lying on his back with his head toward the foot of the stairs. There was a broken bottle of whiskey near the body, and the officers who found him said he reeked of alcohol. It appeared he was drunk and had fallen backwards, hitting his head. However, that didn’t explain why he’d be here at that time of night, and considering the other recent death here and the circumstances surrounding it, we’re definitely treating this one as a possible homicide.”
“And we’ll be taking another, closer look at the Cates case as well,” Marty added. “I’ve told Detective Carpenter about our conversation—I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“Would you mind going over it one more time for my benefit?” Carpenter asked, and I did, adding what I’d learned and pieced together since Marty and I had our conversation.
“So you think Witherspoon killed Cates and was blackmailing Knight?” Carpenter asked, sitting back in his chair. “And Knight then killed Witherspoon?” He shook his head. “That was a pretty stupid thing for him to do right after you’d talked to him.”
“I agree,” I said. “But he might have thought that by getting rid of Dave Witherspoon, he might then somehow be able t
o get rid of any proof that Witherspoon was blackmailing him—and, by extension, any proof that he had stolen Morgan Butler’s work. Knight doesn’t know that Scot McVickers kept all Morgan’s letters, and that there’s enough proof in them to convict him of plagiarism. Maybe he figured if there were was no proof of blackmail, there would be no reason for anyone to think he killed Witherspoon. Have you talked to Ryan…I don’t think I know his last name…Dave’s partner?”
“No,” Marty said. “We went over there first thing this morning to talk with him, and he wasn’t home. Looking in through the front window—they live in one of those courtyard-apartment buildings—we saw the place had been ransacked, which makes sense if Knight was looking for whatever it was Witherspoon had on him. We called the super, who let us in, but he said Witherspoon’s roommate was out of town and isn’t due back until this afternoon.”
But then why was Witherspoon killed at the Burrows? Why not in his own apartment?
“Can you get us copies of those letters you were telling us about?” Carpenter asked. It was obvious that Carpenter was the senior member of the team, and Marty was learning the ropes from him.
“I’m sure I can.”
We talked for a few more minutes, then Carpenter thanked me for coming over, and we all got up to leave, Marty carefully putting all three chairs back in their proper places. I promised that I would contact Wayne Powers about the letters and let them know if I found out or thought of anything that might be of further interest to them.
I paused about halfway out the door.
“Oh, and one more thing,” I said. “If you do arrest Knight, and if you get a search warrant for his house, would you be sure they specifically include book manuscripts?”
Carpenter looked a little puzzled, but nodded. “Will do,” he said.
We all shook hands again, and as they went to the cataloging room to see if they could find out anything from Dave’s coworkers, I headed back to the office to try to talk myself out of the persistent and very unpleasant feeling that I’d been responsible for Dave Witherspoon’s death.
*
Well, the whole matter of the plagiarism and the blackmail and the deaths of Taylor Cates and Dave Witherspoon was largely out of my hands. It was up to the police now. When I returned to the office I saw I had no messages, which meant that Tim hadn’t tried to get in touch with me. Well, he was probably busy…maybe with Dave Witherspoon.
Damn! There was that wave of guilt again!
To take my mind off it, I called Glen O’Banyon’s office, and on being told that he was with a client, I left my number and asked to have him call me just as soon as he could.
I fixed a pot of coffee and sat back down at my desk, staring into the cup as though it held some deep secret. Fortunately, the ringing of the phone pulled me back to the real world.
“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, setting the coffee cup down on the desk.
“Dick, hi.” I recognized Tim’s voice immediately. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. We just finished with Dave Witherspoon…I gather that’s why you called me.”
“Yeah,” I said. “What can you tell me about it?”
“Not too much. Blunt trauma to the back of the skull, very similar to that earlier death at the Burrows.”
“Caused by the fall?” I asked, knowing full well that this one was no accident.
“Hard to say, but probably not. With Cates, the size and shape of the wound indicated almost a puncture, and could have been from his hitting a corner of the metal stairs as he fell. With this one—an almost identical wound, he fell down concrete steps with no sharp edges that could cause a wound of that shape.”
“Any indication of a murder weapon?”
“Not at the scene. A piece of pipe, maybe? We’ll be examining the wound more closely to get a better idea of what it might have been.”
“The police say there was a broken bottle of booze by the body, and that he reeked of alcohol.”
“Yeah, that’s another interesting thing,” Tim said. “He may have had a drink or two earlier in the evening, but his blood alcohol levels were well within limits. The smell of alcohol was pretty strong, though…almost like he’d spilled it all over himself.”
“Or someone else had done it for him to make it look as though he were drunk,” I said. “Did you determine a time of death?”
“Somewhere between ten p.m. and midnight, roughly.”
“Well thanks a lot for the information, Tim. I owe you.”
“Ah,” Tim said, “sounds just like the old days.”
I knew he was referring to the time before he met Phil or I met Jonathan when, as I’d mentioned, Tim and I used to spend some very pleasant…uh…single-guy time together…and I laughed.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry I can’t repay you like I used to, but we wouldn’t want to break up two happy homes, now, would we?”
“Nope,” Tim said. “But a little nostalgia’s no crime.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said.
“And on that happy note, I’ve really got to run,” Tim said. “Talk to you soon. Give my best to Jonathan and Joshua.”
“And you to Phil. So long.”
*
Talking to Tim—even albeit about dead bodies—lifted me out of my guilt trip. But I also realized I was experiencing a little something akin to postpartum depression. I mean, I’d been working on this case for what seemed like a long time, and suddenly, in one poor guy’s assisted fall down a flight of stairs, it was over. Well, it wasn’t over; there’d still have to be a charge and a trial and a conviction, but my direct involvement was finished. I’d be an onlooker from here on out.
Not having heard from Glen O’Banyon yet, I took a quick minute to call Wayne Powers to see about borrowing the letters again. He wasn’t home, so I left a message, and had no sooner hung up the receiver when Glen called.
“What’s going on?” he asked, and I told him everything I knew, including my conversation with Marty and his partner and my talk with Tim.
“There is one minor side issue,” I said, “and while it doesn’t really involve me at all, directly, I am concerned about it on Morgan Butler’s behalf.”
“And what is that?” O’Banyon asked.
“If the police find more manuscripts in Knight’s house, and I have a hunch they will—I know he was getting another book ready for his publisher—it raises the question of what to do with them, and who has the rights.”
There was a slight pause, then O’Banyon said, “Well, the Burrows has the rights, unless Morgan assigned them to his son. I know he left a will, and that his bequest to the Burrows Collection is specifically in it, but I don’t know if he made any separate or specific mention of unpublished manuscripts. I can check, though.”
“I don’t know if anything can be done with those manuscripts already published under Evan’s name, as far as giving Morgan credit for them,” I said, “but if there are unpublished manuscripts, I’d really like to see them published under Morgan’s name. Plus, they could bring in quite a bit of money to the Burrows Foundation.”
“A good point,” O’Banyon said. “I’ll definitely check into it. We’ve got enough trouble with Collin Butler as it is…we don’t want another squabble over rights to Morgan’s books.”
“I’m sure Collin would fight for them,” I said, “but not for the money they could bring. I think he’d want them just to make sure they were never published. It may sound a little odd, but I feel I owe it to Morgan to be sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Well let me get back to you on that. I’ll have one of my associates look into the will immediately.”
There was another pause, then, “Well, I’d better set up a meeting with the board to let everyone know what’s going on. Thanks for everything, Dick.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “It’s been an interesting case.”
*
I’d put the photos to be framed in the back seat of my car before leaving for work, an
d had arranged to meet Jonathan and Joshua at the framer’s, which turned out to be in the basement level of a very nice little art shop in one of the more trendy parts of town.
Seeing the fragile nature of many of the glassware and sculptures on display as we entered, Jonathan wisely picked a fascinated Joshua up and carried him through the danger zone.
“Put me down!” Joshua insisted. “I wanna see!”
“When we get downstairs,” Jonathan said, nodding me toward a neatly painted sign near the stairway.
I had no idea there were so many different types and styles of picture frame available, but this place seemed to have them all. It took nearly half an hour to make the right selection…which is to say one Jonathan and I agreed on…for each of the three photos we were planning to hang. The process was interrupted twice by first Jonathan’s and then my hurrying over to scoop Joshua off the stairs as he tried to take advantage of our distraction to go up and play with the “toys” on the main floor.
Told that the newly framed pictures would be ready within the week, we left and celebrated Joshua’s getting out of the place without breaking anything by going to Cap’n Rooney’s Fish Shack for dinner. It occurred to me that we ate there so often we should buy stock in the place.
*
When we got home, I called Wayne Powers’ number, and found him home. I asked if I could borrow the letters again, explaining that the police wanted copies of those which could prove some of Morgan’s other papers had been stolen from the Burrows Collection.
“I’ll be home all morning,” Powers said, “if you’d like to come by and get them. Though to be honest, I feel a little awkward about …well, you know…these are personal letters to Scot, and…”
“I understand of course,” I said, and I did. “I can come over around nine thirty, if that’s okay. And if you have the time for me to go quickly through them while I’m there, I’ll be able to take only the letters I think would be pertinent to their investigation.”
“I’d appreciate that,” he said. “So I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
“Yes, and thanks again.”
*
