Director's Cut

by Alton Gansky

  “Thank you, Chief.” In his awkward way, he had made me feel better.

  “Yeah, well, you still annoy me.”

  “That’s sweet. And you annoy me too.”

  The granite-faced Chief Bill Webb smiled.

  I looked out the window to see if the sky was falling.

  Webb walked me to my office and snatched up his letter of resignation. I offered to shred it for him but he said he might need it in the future. Then he did a favor for me: he called Detective West and got an update on the search for Catherine. There was no news and another piece of me died.

  “You know,” Webb said, “this makes her look pretty guilty. Fleeing after being interviewed about the second homicide at her home.”

  “Guilty? Detective West said that no gunpowder residue was found on her hands or clothing. She didn’t shoot Andy Buchanan.”

  “I didn’t say she pulled the trigger, but two murders at her home, both people she knew, both connected to her work, is more than a little suspicious. Then she lied about having a key to your place. Why do that?”

  “I don’t know. I just know she’s not a killer.”

  He looked at me hard. “Terminal caring.” He walked away.

  No sooner than Webb had left, Floyd appeared at my door. “Do I want to know what all that was about?”

  “You don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want to tell it. Bottom line is that everything is as it was—at least with the chief.” I waved him in.

  “Has there been . . . I mean, is there any word?”

  “About Catherine? No. I wish there was. Sit down, I’ll bring you up-to-date.” Floyd did, looking like a lost puppy. I shared what I knew about Catherine and her disappearance. He took in every word, looking more worried by the moment.

  “Do you think that someone abducted her?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. She purposely led Detective West to believe that she had a key to my home, knowing that she didn’t. If she couldn’t get in and knew it, then she must have had some other plan. I had hoped she intended to wait for me to show up, but I don’t think that’s what she had in mind.”

  “But why? Why would she run away?”

  “Fear,” I suggested.

  “What could Catherine be afraid of? Arrest?”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt it. I think she may know something we don’t. Two people associated with her have died. Maybe she left to protect others, to protect me. The question remains, what does she know that we don’t?”

  “And who helped her get away? I mean, she didn’t just walk from your house.”

  “Floyd, I want you to do a few things for me. Detective West mentioned a director’s cut of Catherine’s movie is out on DVD. I’d like to see it.”

  “That’s easy. I bought a copy the night you let me join you and the others for dinner at your home. I have it in my desk. I was hoping that you could get Catherine to autograph it for me. I can set it up so you can watch it on your computer. It has a DVD player, you know—”

  “I know that. Just bring me the DVD. I need your computer skills for something else. Search the Internet and see if the script A LONG WAY FROM NOWHERE has been posted. Maybe someone leaked it. Catherine told me that that happens a lot.

  “Also,” I continued, “run over to the police station and pick up a copy of the script that was dropped off at the theater last night. West said he made a copy of the first one, I’m sure he made a copy of the second. I’ll call ahead and pave the way for you. In fact, I’m going to ask for copies of both scripts.”

  “Do you think he’ll give you any trouble about the scripts?”

  “Of course he will. I just have to be more insistent and since I’m not asking for actual evidence, just photocopies, he’ll relent. He’ll complain, but he’ll give in.” I hope.

  Floyd wasted no time in retrieving the DVD for me. I set it aside and called West. He relented faster and easier than I expected. Truth was, he sounded preoccupied. I used that to my advantage. City employees seldom hang up on their mayor.

  I was eager to start the DVD but decided to wait until Floyd was back. I wanted to give it my full attention and answering the phone would break my concentration. West had said that the first movie had scenes showing the loading of a gun with Glaser blue-tip ammunition but those scenes had later been cut. I doubted I’d see anything important but it was better than sitting in one spot worrying.

  A motion at the door caught my attention. I expected to see Floyd, but I saw someone else, someone I never expected to see. He was standing at the threshold watching me. Fritzy stood by his side. She had escorted him from the lobby to my office. I rose from my chair and cleared my throat.

  “Mr. Buchanan.” The words crawled out, far weaker than I intended. He wore a button-down patterned sweater, a polo shirt, and tan slacks. He looked twenty pounds lighter than when I saw him a short time ago. I knew it was an illusion. He was carrying himself like a man who bore the weight of several planets on his back.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I should have called.”

  I said thank you to Fritzy, dismissing her from the uncomfortable situation. To Buchanan I said, “Nonsense. Come in. Sit down.” He did and I started to ask, How are you doing? But I caught myself. How would any man be doing whose son had just been murdered? As he sat, I had the sense I was watching a hollow man cored out by violent tragedy.

  “I was . . . I was just at the police station. Detective West had some questions. Your aide was over there making copies or something. That made me think of you.”

  “You drove all the way out here to talk to Detective West?”

  “No. I came in late last night. I had to . . . I was asked to . . .”

  “Identify the body?”

  He lowered his head. “Yes.”

  “Mr. Buchanan, I wish I could do more than tell you how sorry I am over your loss.”

  “There’s nothing to say that would do any good. It’s happened and no matter how many times I tell myself it’s not true, I keep seeing him lying on that table looking like my son but with no life in him.” His voice choked.

  “May I get you something? Water? Coffee?”

  He surprised me by chortling. “Have you ever noticed in old movies and television shows, that when someone is upset another character offers them water as if it’s an elixir. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to cut a line like that from a script.”

  “I suppose we do that because we don’t know what else to say or do.”

  “I guess you’re right.” He took a deep breath and tried to square shoulders that weren’t through slumping yet. “I have a favor to ask. I have no right to ask it, but I will.”

  “Please, go ahead.”

  “I know there are so many crimes these days that the police get overloaded, and their attention shifts to more recent crimes. I want my son’s killer found. Would you . . . could you make sure that his death doesn’t get stuck on the back burner?”

  “Things are a little different here, Mr. Buchanan. Normally, our crime rate is very low and murder is something rare. I can guarantee that Detective West won’t put this on the back burner.”

  “That means a lot to me.”

  “Mr. Buchanan, may I ask you a question? I don’t want to add to your grief but maybe you could help me understand something.”

  “You can’t add to the immeasurable, Mayor. Ask your question.” He ran a hand along his shaved head.

  “You know about the additions to the first script, the pages that someone added to terrify Catherine. Your son delivered that script and apparently he delivered another one last night. Do you know why he would bring another screenplay to Catherine?”

  “Your Detective West wanted to know the same thing. I don’t have an answer. I know I didn’t send him. And where he got the script, I can’t say.”

  “Was he normally . . . impulsive?”

  It seemed the question piled another planet on his shoulder. “He was a troubled young man. I thought maybe
he had rounded the corner and left his problems behind. Maybe he didn’t.” He bit his lip.

  I waited, mustering all my strength not to ask the question. I didn’t need to.

  “My wife and I divorced when Andy was ten. I was in the middle of a project and . . . well, I was very self-absorbed. When my wife left, she went to Europe and took Andy with her. She’s not a good mother, and I’m only a slightly better father. She played the field, living off the massive alimony and child support I agreed to pay. When Andy turned fifteen, he became too much for her to handle. She sent him to me. She left with a good ten-year-old and returned a drug-addicted teenager.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not all her fault. I wasn’t there for him when he needed me. He had no father image during those formative years. Of course, if I had been there, I wouldn’t have been much of an example. I was an alcoholic—I am an alcoholic . . . Been dry for almost twelve years. When Andy arrived on my doorstep, I realized he had a problem. I also realized I had a similar problem. He came by his addictive personality honestly, if honestly is the right word. I checked us both into a rehab hospital. We kicked our problems.”

  “That was a courageous thing to do. You’ve been off alcohol for over a decade.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been able to stick with it. Andy, not so much.”

  “I’m sorry.” I was saying that a lot lately.

  “He kept falling back into the old habits. I took him out of school and had him tutored. He did well with that. I also hired him to work with me. He did a little acting; just a line here and there. I also tried to teach him the business. He was interested in directing and writing. He even surprised me with a screenplay one day. It was passable but not great.”

  “When did he write the screenplay?”

  “At college. He had been drug free for a couple of years so I felt comfortable sending him to New York for film school. That’s where he met Catherine, in New York. Anyway, he came home with the script. I should have been more encouraging, but screenwriters are a dime a dozen. Only the best make it to the top and those who do make a great deal of money, but the odds are against anyone who tries. I thought he had a better chance at directing. That’s where my real contacts are.”

  Over Buchanan’s shoulder, I saw Floyd enter. He had the screenplays in hand. I asked Floyd to join us and made introductions. Floyd took the other seat but leaned away from Buchanan as if grief were contagious.

  “Did Detective West show you the second script? The one that arrived at the theater last night?”

  “No. He mentioned it.”

  What Floyd brought was an unbound set of pages, dark but legible. I turned to the inserted pages, pushed them toward him. “I don’t know if you can tell me anything about this.”

  “I’m sorry about the quality,” Floyd said. “I had to make copies of Detective West’s copies which were made from the original that was printed on yellow paper.”

  “It’s okay, Floyd. We can read the words and that’s what matters.”

  It took only moments for Buchanan to scan the pages. Clearly he was used to reading screenplays. He handed them back. “I can tell you it’s not part of our script. It’s a little cheesy but at least the format is right.”

  “Cheesy?”

  “It’s a little over the top and a little sloppy.”

  “What do you mean sloppy?”

  He leaned over the desk, looked at the pages again, then pointed. “Right here.”

  I moved the pages closer and scrutinized them.

  LACY

  Please, just let him go.

  INTRUDER

  It’s too late and it’s your fault. It’s all your fault.

  LACY

  No. Please no. I’m sorry.

  INTRUDER

  Sorry doesn’t cut it. Never has. Never will.

  (Laughs)

  The Body Count is now two. Ready for three?

  “What am I supposed to see?”

  “See the last line of the insertion? Just below the direction ‘Laughs’?”

  “The one that reads, ‘Ready for three?’”

  “Right before that. ‘Body Count’ is capitalized and it shouldn’t be. Sloppy. There’s nothing more distracting than a script filled with typos.” He rose. “Thank you for your time, Mayor, and your commitment. I need to go make arrangements for my son and . . .”

  “And?” I prompted.

  New sadness shadowed his face. “I’m going to tell Rockwood to get a new director. I don’t think I can continue the project. Thank you again.” He started toward the door, then stopped. “You know, that is odd about the typo.”

  “Odd? How?”

  “I told you that Andy surprised me with a script when he came back from college in New York. That was the working title: Body Count.”

  I returned my gaze to the pages. That was odd. Coincidence? When I looked up Buchanan was gone. A commiserating sorrow filled me. I didn’t envy what he would have to face in the days ahead.

  Body count. Body Count. A title? I studied the two words, then noticed what followed. I had seen them but they had not registered before.

  INTRUDER

  Sorry doesn’t cut it. Never has. Never will.

  (Laughs)

  The Body Count is now two. Ready for three?

  Who was number three supposed to be?

  Chapter 28

  I had to make the call. The clock was crawling toward noon and still no word from Catherine. A police officer had been assigned to her property, forbidding access to the curious, protecting unfound evidence, and watching for my missing cousin. There had been no sign of her. West had done what police do. He put out an APB, got the necessary legal permissions to monitor her cell phone usage, and asked Detective Brian Duffy to check the home and office of Franco Zambonelli. So far, nothing.

  I had to make the call.

  My stomach churned as the phone began to ring. It rang five times, and I was prepared to leave a message on an answering machine when I heard a breathless, “Hello.”

  “Jenny? It’s Maddy.”

  “Oh, hi, Maddy. I almost missed you. I was putting wet laundry in the drier.” She sounded unperturbed. “How’s my daughter treating you? Is she okay?”

  “She called you about the . . . the tragedy at her home?”

  “Horrible. The poor thing was shaken to the core. I tried to get her to come home, but she said she was all right and that she was staying with you.”

  I wanted to move forward gently. “Was that the last time you spoke with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “She didn’t call yesterday?” I pushed.

  “Maddy, what’s wrong? Has something happened to Catherine?”

  “There was another murder at her home. Someone she knows from the studio.”

  “Oh, no, no, no. How can that be? Two murders?”

  “Jenny, is Neil there?” Neil was Jenny’s husband, Catherine’s father.

  “No. He’s . . . he’s golfing. Tell me what happened.”

  I did, being as brief as possible and leaving out some of the more gruesome details. “I was hoping she had called you.”

  “I’m coming down there. I’ll . . . I’ll call Neil on his cell phone and he’ll come home. I can throw a few things into a bag and be on an airplane right away—”

  “Jenny.”

  “If I can’t get a plane this afternoon, we can drive. If we drive all night—”

  “Jenny. Stop.” She did. “Listen to me. You need to stay right there.”

  “I want to be where my baby is!”

  “I know. I know. But you need to stay there. Catherine might call. She might even show up on your doorstep before the sun goes down. If she does, the police need to know.”

  “Why? Is she in trouble? They can’t seriously think she’s responsible for those horrible things.”

  “Jenny. Take a breath.” I didn’t hear anything. “I’m serious. Take a breath.” She did and I heard her exhaling over the phone. “Do it ag
ain.” A few seconds later I said, “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do next. I’m going to talk. You’re going to listen. Got it?” My tone was steady and firm.

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “Catherine may be with her publicist. He hasn’t shown up at his office or his home, according to the LAPD. She may be trying to distance herself from those she cares about. Two people she knows have been murdered. I think she’s trying to protect herself and others. That means she may call you, or she may call some of her old friends. If she calls, I want you to phone Detective Judson West. Can you write down a number?”

  “Yes.”

  I gave her the number as well as my office and cell phone. “All the police want to know is if she’s safe. That’s all any of us want.” I paused. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I think so.”

  “That’s good. Call Neil. He needs to know and you shouldn’t be alone. Will you do that?”

  “Yes. You’ll call the instant you learn something, won’t you?”

  I promised I would and hung up. It was my turn to take a few deep breaths. I felt like I was on the eleventh mile of a ten-mile race.

  I instructed Floyd to hold my calls except for Catherine or West. I closed my door, turned to my computer, and dropped the director’s cut DVD in. For the next two hours I watched a movie I should have seen last year. West had described it as a woman-in-peril suspense story. He was right about that. Night After Night was dark and moody but well done. The story flowed and the characters were believable. Catherine’s acting anchored the whole production. In several scenes it looked as if she might lose her life. Had I been watching in a theater, I would have been less moved, but with two murders and Catherine now missing, the story seemed too real.

  I did my best to not lose myself in the movie. I was looking for clues but found none. West had mentioned a scene in which the killer loads a .38 with Glaser blue-tips, just like the one that killed Ed Lowe and presumably the kind that killed Andy Buchanan. That had yet to be demonstrated, but it was a reasonable assumption.

  Frustration filled my mind. I had hoped some crime-ending clue would pop off the screen in an “Aha!” moment. It didn’t happen. The only connections I could make were Catherine was the star, a .38 revolver with Glaser bullets was used, and people died.