Degree of Guilt

by Unknown

  Monk’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. ‘That was what persuaded you.’

  Mary sipped water, selecting her words. ‘I wasn’t interested in destroying James Colt’s memory – or in Laura Chase’s death, for that matter. I was interested in the ethics of it. Buying and selling people’s most intimate secrets, things they wouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  ‘That he shouldn’t use the tape.’ Mary paused. ‘But I’m also a journalist. Ransom told me that truth was more important than privacy or sentiment, for the dead and for the living.’

  ‘Did you agree?’

  ‘No.’ Mary examined her broken nail. ‘But it was impossible not to see him.’

  ‘Did he say why he contacted you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why was that?’

  She felt herself stiffen. ‘That he liked watching me on television. And that the “subject matter” might interest me.’

  ‘Did he elaborate?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice cooled again. ‘Not until I saw him.’

  Monk sat down and contemplated her across the tape recorder, hand touching his chin. ‘What happened,’ he finally asked, ‘when you came to his suite?’

  Mary looked past him at the wall. Think about each detail, she told herself, one sentence at a time.

  ‘I got there at eleven-thirty.’ Her voice turned cool. ‘I expected him to have a publicist. But he was alone.’

  Monk sat back. ‘Instead of me asking questions, why don’t you just go through it. We can go back over any details later.’

  Mary found herself watching the tape recorder, mute.

  ‘Maybe,’ Monk prodded, ‘you can start with what he was like.’

  Mary raised her eyes, looking straight at Monk. ‘He was disgusting.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Every way.’ She exhaled. ‘To really understand, you would have to be a woman.’

  Monk seemed to smile without changing expression. ‘Try me,’ he said.

  Mary looked down. ‘To start,’ she said finally, ‘he was repellent physically. He was a tall man, and he tried to be so patrician – his Anglo-Irish accent, the way he would stand, as if posing for a portrait. But it was like watching a figure in a wax museum. Even his skin looked cold. He had this soft white stomach . . .’ She stopped herself. ‘That wasn’t until later.’

  Monk’s eyes narrowed. ‘Take it from the beginning.’

  Slowly, Mary nodded.

  ‘At the beginning, it was the way he looked at me. He was Irish, of course, but he had these ice-blue eyes and kind of Slavic features – a face with a lot of surfaces, and eyes that seemed to pull up at the ends, maybe from plastic surgery. And even when he smiled, his eyes never changed.’ She turned away. ‘I remember suddenly thinking that he looked less like an intellectual than like a Russian general at a May Day parade. One whose grandfather had raped his grandmother in some peasant uprising . . .’ Mary found that she was clasping her wrist. Quietly, she finished: ‘I thought that before I even sat down, and congratulated myself on what a clever observation it was.’

  Monk waited, letting her collect herself. ‘What did he say when you first got there?’

  ‘That I was a beautiful woman.’ Monk looked up again. ‘That the camera didn’t capture all of me.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I thanked him.’ Her voice was ironic. ‘Of course. Then I changed the subject.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To his writing. What else do you talk about to a writer who has already proposed his own obituary: “More than anyone, he saw and wrote the truth about his times” . . . ?’

  Monk said nothing. He was waiting her out, she realized; she was digressing, trying to avoid the essence of her story. ‘It was while we were talking,’ she said, ‘that I noticed the tape recorder.’

  ‘Tell me about that.’

  Mary nodded again. ‘It was on the coffee table.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘At first I didn’t understand. When I sat down, I asked him what it was for.’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  Mary realized that she was staring at the tape recorder. ‘I thought he might be recording us for some reason.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That it was the tape of Laura Chase. He was going to give me an exclusive opportunity, he said.’

  ‘What did he mean?’

  ‘What he said he meant was that when the book came out, I could do the first television interview.’ She paused again. ‘All about Laura and James Colt.’

  Monk folded his hands. After a moment, he asked, ‘Did Ransom say why he’d brought the tape with him?’

  ‘As bait. He said he might let me listen.’ She stared at her wrist.

  ‘The tape seemed to excite him – he kept looking at it.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. He said that he wanted to talk first, about the book. That we should have some champagne.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I didn’t want to. But it was a story, and I was there, and champagne was part of his pretense of elegance. So I let him order champagne from room service. We sat on the couch, talking, and I had one glass.’

  Monk raised his eyebrows. ‘The bottle was empty,’ he observed.

  ‘He drank the rest.’ Mary closed her eyes. ‘While we listened to the tape.’

  Monk was silent. ‘You listened to it?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Yes. At some point, I realized that was why I was there. He wanted to share it.’ She paused, speaking more slowly. ‘He needed me to hear what James Colt had done to Laura Chase.’

  Monk seemed to search for another question. Then he asked simply, ‘What happened?’

  Mary felt cold. ‘It was horrible. The last time I had heard Laura Chase was at the movies, or perhaps on her early records. It was the same voice, but there weren’t any pictures. Instead I was sitting in a hotel suite with Mark Ransom, while an actress who’s been dead for twenty years decribed how a senator I remembered admiring watched two of his friends take turns with her.’ She found herself staring at the tape recorder again. ‘I’m not sure, at first, that I even felt his hand on my knee.’

  ‘Ransom fondled you while the tape was playing?’

  She nodded. ‘At first, I thought it was a mistake. I mean, it was more like grazing than touching. Then I stopped and looked at him.

  ‘He just stared back at me. When he knew he had my attention, he looked down at his lap. Slowly, to make sure I would follow him.’

  ‘And.’

  ‘He had an erection. That was what he wanted me to see.’

  The gold-rimmed glasses seemed to magnify Monk’s eyes. ‘He had his penis out?’

  ‘No. It was obvious enough.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘He offered me an “arrangement,” to play the tape on Deadline.’

  ‘Did he say what kind of arrangement?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Just what he said.’

  ‘All right. What he said, exactly, was, “I like fucking women I’ve seen on film. It’s as if I’ve made them real.”’

  Monk touched his chin. ‘What did you do?’ he finally asked.

  ‘I told him I was much too smart to fuck him, and took his hand away. Then I said to him, much more calmly, that I was willing to deal with him as a news professional and make some other kind of “arrangement.”’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That his arrangement was the only arrangement. That I’d like it.’ Mary paused again. ‘All this time, Laura Chase is still talking on the tape, about having sex while James Colt watches.’

  The room was silent. Mary could hear the whisper of the tape.

  ‘What happened next?’ Monk asked.

  ‘I stood up, grabbed my purse off the coffee table . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ransom caught me by the arm.’


  Monk waited for a moment. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘Can I have more water?’

  ‘Sure.’ Monk stood again. ‘Anytime you want something, just tell me.’

  Mary picked a spot on the wall. Don’t think about Monk, she told herself. Concentrate on the words. When Monk returned and handed her the full cup of water, she kept her eyes on the wall.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Monk said.

  She nodded. ‘Ransom spun me around and clasped both of my arms. It threw me off balance . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He pushed me to the floor. It was so sudden – I was still holding my purse. And then he was on top of me.’ She drank water. ‘Really, I can’t remember all of it.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what he did.’

  ‘He was grunting, almost – for me to stay still. That he was going to fuck me, no one would know. His face was against my neck. He was hot and smelled like champagne and men’s cologne.’ She stopped for a moment. ‘Somehow, he pulled open my legs. That must be when my thigh got scratched.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was like the wind had been knocked out of me. I remember feeling sick, the room getting dark for a moment, Laura Chase’s smoky voice in the background . . .’

  ‘The tape was still on?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mary nodded. ‘For some reason, I could hear it clearly. She was talking about the second man, doing whatever he wanted.’

  Monk examined his tie clasp. ‘What happened then?’ he asked.

  Mary touched her face. Coldly, she said, ‘That was when I started fighting.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I made fists. Hit his face, arms, anything.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He put one hand on my chest and leaned on it to pin me to the floor, propping himself over me. His face was red, and his eyes were fixed and full of hate. It stopped – just for a second. I half raised my head to look at him.’ She paused, took one breath, and finished: ‘Then he raised his arm, very slowly, and slapped me across the face.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I cried out.’ Mary paused. ‘So he hit me again.’

  ‘And then?’

  She looked away. ‘I stopped fighting.’

  ‘Is that the bruise?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mary kept staring past him. Her voice had become a monotone. ‘My head hit the floor. Pain shot through my neck. For a moment, it got dark again. I think maybe he was choking me.’

  ‘You’re not sure.’

  ‘No.’ She swallowed. ‘The next thing I remember is that my skirt is around my waist and my legs are spread apart, with the panty hose still on.’

  ‘What is Ransom doing?’

  ‘He’s kneeling between my legs, staring down at me. His pants are around his knees.’ She paused. ‘It’s so crazy – somehow it shocks me that his pubic hairs are red. There’s a red birthmark on his thigh . . .’

  From the corner of her eye, Mary saw Monk pause, absently pushing the gold-rimmed glasses where they touched the bridge of his nose.

  ‘What does he do then?’

  ‘He stops for a moment.’ Mary’s voice grew quieter. ‘I think he’s listening to Laura Chase.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I feel the strap of my purse in my left hand. It’s funny: I’ve never let it go.’ Mary spoke more softly still. ‘And then I remember the gun.’

  Monk’s own voice had become quiet. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘All this time, I’ve never spoken. Now I say, “You can take me. I’ll let you do it, any way you want.” His eyes seem to light up.’ Mary paused, permitting herself a bitter smile. ‘Then I tell him, “But only if you use a rubber.”’

  Monk’s impassivity had become a stare. ‘What,’ he asked at length, ‘did Ransom say?’

  ‘He laughs – kind of a short bark. “No,” I say, “there’s one in my purse.” It seems to startle him. Before he can answer, I twist and reach into my purse. . . .

  ‘When he pushes me on my back again, the gun is in my hand.

  ‘When he grabs for it, I knee him. His hands are on my wrists. He gives this cry; his body seems almost to twitch. . . .’ Mary closed her eyes. ‘That’s when the gun went off.’

  ‘What else do you remember?’

  Mary bent forward. ‘Just his face. He looks softer, almost disappointed, as if I had hurt his feelings. I catch him in both hands, an inch or two from my body. His breath still stinks. All my strength, and I can barely push him off.’ She paused once more, and finished. ‘That’s when I noticed that Laura had stopped talking.’

  There was silence. Mary felt herself slump in the chair. Over, she told herself. It’s over.

  She opened her eyes. ‘Can I go now?’

  Monk watched her. ‘I’d like to ask you a few more questions. Just about what you’ve told me.’

  Mary felt a surge of anger. She sat, irresolute, replaying the tone of Monk’s voice. His face showed nothing.

  ‘The gun,’ he said. ‘Why do you carry one?’

  She sat back, drained. ‘I’ve had threatening phone calls,’ she said finally.

  ‘When did they happen?’

  ‘The past two months . . . I don’t know exactly.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Male.’

  ‘At work?’

  ‘No. At home.’

  ‘Are you listed?’

  ‘No.

  ‘Did the person seem to know who you were?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Could it have been Ransom?’

  Mary hesitated. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘How many calls?’

  ‘Two, I think.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Not much. Just that they were watching me.’

  ‘Did you report them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone?’

  ‘No. Not that I remember.’

  ‘But you bought a gun.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mary summoned a tone of weary patience. ‘I’m a public person. Those calls reminded me that there are strange people out there, and that I’m a woman living alone.’

  ‘When did you buy the gun?’

  Mary shrugged. ‘About two weeks ago.’

  ‘Was that before, or after, you first heard from Ransom?’

  Mary stared at him. ‘After, I think.’

  Monk leaned slightly forward. ‘You flew here from New York, correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Sunday morning.’

  Monk cocked his head, as if to consider her from another angle.

  ‘Who made the hotel and plane reservations?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did you make them through Deadline?’

  ‘No.’ Mary paused. ‘I paid for them myself.’

  ‘Doesn’t ABC pay for business travel?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mary’s voice grew impatient. ‘Why is this important? They can either pay me in advance or reimburse me.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone at ABC about seeing Ransom?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t have to.’

  ‘Or about his calls?’

  Don’t be defensive, Mary told herself. ‘No,’ she answered.

  ‘And you brought the gun with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you get it out here?’

  ‘In my luggage.’

  Monk’s eyes seemed to move. ‘Did you tell the airport people you had it?’

  ‘No.’

  Monk paused for a moment. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘did anyone see you in the lobby?’

  ‘I don’t know. I went right to his suite.’

  ‘Once you were inside, did anyone come to the room?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘What about room service?’

  ‘Yes . . . that . . .’

  ‘Was the person a man or a woman?’

  ‘A man.’

  ‘Can you tell me what he loo
ked like?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . short. Hispanic, I think.’

  Monk leaned back. ‘When you got to the room,’ he said ‘were the blinds closed?’

  ‘I think so.’ Once again, Mary paused. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘There were scratches on Ransom’s buttocks. Do you know how they got there?’

  ‘Of course. When I was struggling with him.’

  ‘You’d mentioned your fists being closed, and I don’t remember anything about scratching his buttocks.’

  Mary recalled Dr Shelton, tracing the scratches with her finger. ‘I don’t know,’ she said wearily. ‘Maybe it happened when I was pushing him off me. After the gun went off.’

  Monk nodded again. ‘When you were struggling with the gun, were Ransom’s hands on it?’

  Shelton had inspected the dead man’s hands, put them both in glassine bags. . . .

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘When the gun fired, Miss Carelli, how far was it from Ransom’s chest?’

  She had touched his wound, the torn cloth around it. . . .

  ‘Very close.’

  ‘How close? Was it touching him?’

  ‘No.’ Mary could hear the tape recorder whirring. ‘Two inches . . .’

  Monk leaned forward. ‘Not two feet, or three feet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The scratch on your throat – it happened after Ransom slapped you?’

  She had taken samples from her fingernails, then his. . . .

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then he pulled his pants down.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he have an erection?’

  She had taken swabs from his penis. . . .

  ‘Miss Carelli?’

  The tape kept spinning.

  ‘Yes,’ She reached for the empty cup of water. The tape still coiled, slowly, repeatedly.

  ‘The erection.’ Monk’s voice seemed far away. ‘What do you remember about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was an erection, that’s all. I didn’t have time to think about how special it was.’

  Monk folded his arms. ‘After the gun went off, what did you do?’

  ‘I don’t know. . . . I was dazed.’

  ‘How long did it take for you to call 911?’

  She had reached under his armpit, felt his skin. . . .

  ‘I don’t know. As soon as I was able.’

  The tape turned again. Once, twice.

  ‘While you were at the suite, did you leave at any time?’

  Mary looked up.