I was instantly aflame, aroused despite myself. I kissed her back and my hands searched her remembered body as if all those years had never passed. A voice seemed to whisper in my mind, a whispered warning, but my pulse was pounding and I didn’t want to listen.
The trip to the bed was awkward, our two bodies locked and twisted together, moving like an uncoordinated land crab. Somehow she managed to get out of most her clothes during the graceless journey.
On the bed, the willing struggle continued, mouths, hands and moans, flesh on fire. She was more sure, more practiced, and she had learned so many more things to do.
But the taste and smell of her was the same.
Everything was the same.
We weren’t teenagers anymore. But it didn’t seem to matter.
6
DID I GO TO THE FUNERAL?
No.
Did I feel good about myself?
Same answer.
I even imagine — or perhaps it wasn’t imagination — the look on the security guards’ faces when I drove my car out of the Harwell’s place at almost four in the morning.
The psychiatrists say the child within us never dies and the ethics and standards pounded into us in our very early years, no matter how stern or inappropriate, are never completely forgotten, but exist like reproachful ghosts in the dark recesses of our minds.
My ghost had a face and name. She had harsh eyes enlarged by thick glasses that perched upon her razor-thin nose. Her mouth was a severe line like a crack in concrete. No lips, just disapproval. My ghost’s name was Marie Celeste, Sister Marie Celeste.
In the beginning she was real enough. She was the scourge of my grade school and she had resolved to save the soul of Charles Sloan, a cringing little boy, by force and violence, if necessary. She seemed to follow me from grade to grade like a black-robed fate. She still follows me.
A Catholic kid doesn’t need a superego if a Sister Marie Celeste is around. Awakening thoughts of sexuality were quickly stamped out, like the sputtering fuse to a deadly bomb. As were all deviations in thought, word, or deed beyond the spiritual or behavioral limits set by Marie Celeste. Her verbal floggings, expressed in the form of prayer, had the force and effect of fanatical threats, or, when she was really angry, biblical curses.
I had long ago left the church, but somehow I was never able to escape her.
I wondered what she would think of me now. Lapsed in matters of faith, a recovering drunk, a lawyer who had eluded disbarment by a chin whisker, a man hanging onto existence by his fingertips. And worst of all, a man who had committed the “great sin” with a widow on the eve of her dead husband’s funeral.
I had heard that Marie Celeste, now in her eighties, had suffered a massive stroke and become a mindless drooler, tied to a chair in the mother house of her order. Even if somehow I could pose the question, she no longer had the ability to answer.
That was, of course, the Sister Marie Celeste of the flesh. The ominous one in my mind was still fully capable of unforgiving, furious judgment.
The sexual romp with Robin had been like a fevered dream, half real, half delirious, a montage of taste, touch, and smell, each animal sensation searing a memory into the consciousness. The lovemaking had been frantic and sweaty, and only mutual exhaustion had stopped it.
But those vivid memories only produced a sense of guilt that had rolled in upon me like a heavy fog.
So I didn’t go to the funeral.
Although I hadn’t had much sleep and felt the effects, I decided to get some distance from my reproving ghost by occupying myself as busily as I could.
Angel Harwell hadn’t been allowed to go to the funeral. I wondered how she was feeling. Perhaps she too needed something to occupy her thoughts.
The examination before Judge Mulhern was only one day away. Angel wouldn’t testify — it was just for prosecution witnesses — but I thought I might be able to pry up a few more details from her, perhaps discover something to help my cross examination.
Angel looked even better than before. Her black hair was still wet from the jail shower, her perfect skin glowed. She was of age, a grown woman, but there was an underlying eerie sense of the child about her, like a sprite or a beautiful innocent creature of the woodlands, someone who might appear from a morning mist. She certainly didn’t have the look of a killer, yet there was something unsettling about her that provoked in me a sense of wariness. She regarded me with interest, but her pale blue expressionless eyes again gave no hint of what she might be thinking.
We sat across from each other, as before, separated by glass and speaking through microphones.
“How are you doing, Angel?”
She shrugged. “All right, I suppose. Did you go to Daddy’s funeral?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s going on as we speak. Are you all right?”
“About the funeral, you mean?”
“Yes.”
She seemed to look past me as she spoke. “I felt bad that they wouldn’t let me go. But there isn’t anything I could do anyway, is there, even if they had allowed me to go? He’s dead and that’s all there is to it. I suppose missing some clergyman’s inane sermon won’t ruin my life.”
“That’s a good way to look at it. Are you ready for tomorrow?”
“What’s to be ready? From what you told me, I won’t even be able to tell my side.”
“No, but they’ll read the statement you gave to Evola.”
“Why would they want to read it?”
“It’s maybe the biggest part of their case. They’ll —”
“No, I don’t mean it that way. Why should they have to read it? They recorded it on videotape.”
“What?”
She nodded. “They had a camera set up. Of course, they had a stenographer there too. But the cop running the camera seemed to know what he was doing. Is there some rule that they can’t show that tape in court?”
It was like getting hit in the stomach. “They can show it, Angel, and they will.” Evola had sandbagged me, letting me think the steno’s transcript was the only thing he had. I shouldn’t have let that happen. It wouldn’t have happened in the old days, never. I hoped my shock didn’t show. I wondered if it were only a matter of being rusty and away too long, or if I had truly lost forever the mental edge I once had. “How come you never told me about the camera?”
“You didn’t ask. I didn’t think it was unusual. Isn’t almost everything done that way now?”
“More or less. A video will have more effect than a stenographer’s dry reading.”
“Will they use the first or second one?”
“What do you mean?”
She seemed annoyed that my mental processes were apparently so slow. “They shot two videos. Everything seemed to take such a long time that night. The policemen talked to me, then that tall blond man.”
“Evola.”
She nodded. “He talked to me several times. Sometimes a woman took down what we said, sometimes she didn’t.”
“Go on.”
“Finally, they took me into a room with the camera. I guess I didn’t answer the way he wanted, although I thought we had covered everything. So, he did the whole thing again. I suppose that’s the one they’re going to use.”
“Angel, this is important. How many formal statements did you give the police that night?”
She pursed her lips and thought for a moment, then nodded, as if to herself. “Three. Two of them were videotaped.”
“Okay, let’s go over everything very carefully, Angel. That night, the night you saw your father dead, when did you first talk to the police?”
“At the house. They came to my room, two policemen in uniform. They asked me how I got the blood on me, things like that. There were only a few questions until the other ones got there.”
“Detectives?”
She nodded. “I guess. Anyway, they were in civilian clothes. They kept me away from Robin and the others.”
“And they asked you
what happened?”
“Yes. Of course, they told me I didn’t have to answer if I didn’t want to, and that I had a right to an attorney. They kept telling me that over and over all night, or so it seemed.”
“They brought you down to the sheriff’s office. What happened then?”
“They gave me some coffee. Two of them talked to me in a small room.”
“Morgan and Maguire?”
“I think those are their names. They were very nice to me.”
“Think carefully, Angel. What did you tell them, exactly?”
She sighed and shrugged. “Everything seems hazy to me, really. When I think about that night, I keep seeing Daddy lying there, with the knife ...” Her voice trailed off.
“Well, tell me what you remember telling Morgan and Maguire.”
“I told them I was sorry Daddy was dead, that I felt bad because we had quarreled that night. They asked me about the blood on my clothes and my hands.”
“And?”
She shrugged again. “I really can’t remember what I told them. I was very upset.”
“Did they question you and have a stenographer take it down?”
Angel nodded. “After a while, yes.”
“Did you feel afraid?”
“No. I just felt very bad. Real bad.”
“When did you first talk to Evola, the prosecutor, the tall blond man?”
“In that same small office. He came in while the police were talking to me. After they were done he asked me some questions. My memory is sort of disjointed. People kept coming and going that night.”
“Did you tell the two policemen that you thought you were responsible for your father’s death?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why don’t you think so?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, I just don’t remember saying that, not then.”
“Okay, you talked to Evola, then what happened?”
“They took me across a hall to the room where the camera was set up.”
“And Evola questioned you there?”
“Yes. I could tell the camera was going. Those things have a little blinking red light when they record. I saw the light.”
“And that happened twice? Are you sure about that?”
“It’s about all I am sure of.”
“What was different about the two sessions, that you can remember?”
“Really nothing,” she said. “It seemed to me he asked the same questions each time.”
“After the first taping, did anyone talk to you?”
“He did.”
“Evola?”
She nodded.
“What did he say?”
“As I remember, he said I had to speak louder.”
“And that’s all?”
She shrugged. “He said I had to be more definite about what happened. I think that’s when the responsibility thing first came up.”
“Responsibility, was that his word or yours?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t remember. Everything was so confused.”
“What did you mean by responsibility?”
There was no expression. “I’m not sure, now. I certainly didn’t mean that I stabbed my father. An awful thing had happened and I felt bad because we had fought earlier. I think that’s why I said that, but I’m not entirely sure. I’m sorry I’m not more help. I just don’t remember.”
I thought for a moment. “Angel, when they asked if you wanted a lawyer, why didn’t you say yes?”
“It didn’t seem, well, important.”
“You must have realized at some point that you were in trouble?”
For the first time I saw some emotion, maybe the beginning of tears in those startling ice-blue eyes, but she quickly looked away as she spoke.
“My father was dead. I felt terrible. What happened to me didn’t seem to matter. I really didn’t care, not then.”
“Do you care now, Angel?”
Her eyes returned to meet mine. “Yes.”
“Good. You should. I’ll see you in court tomorrow morning.”
“Then can you get me out of here?” For an instant only, her tone revealed real agony.
“We’ll see, Angel. I’ll do my very best.”
She nodded. “Will Robin be there tomorrow?”
“I think so.”
I tried to read her expression to see what she was thinking, but it was like looking at a mask — a beautiful one but still a mask.
“Please. Help me.” She spoke the words softly, with quiet calm. Two tears rolled down from her eyes, slowly. The effect had the impact of a scream.
*
THE Kerry County medical examiner had come a long way from the Philippine Islands, the land of his birth — over ten thousand miles, by way of Harvard, Johns Hopkins, and Bellevue. He had worked for a while in Detroit and that’s where I got to know him.
Ernesto Rey, M.D., resembled a cute little Kewpie doll, with a round baby face, so pretty that his tan features would have been better suited on a girl. He had large chocolate eyes and dark black hair that curled around his dimpled face in a tousled crown. Just an inch over five feet, he also had a doll’s body, soft and cuddly. His white little teeth were perfect and he kept them exposed in an almost perpetual shy smile.
He was almost fifty, but looked thirty. Despite his size and cute persona, the word was out that he made Errol Flynn look like a Franciscan monk. Ernesto Rey, M.D., was irresistible to the ladies, and vice versa.
It was that trait that always brought him trouble. In some men a Don Juan reputation is amusing, particularly if the man looks like something that should be on top of a wedding cake. But there was a quality about Rey’s single-mindedly predatory sexual nature that suggested something degenerate, even maniacal, Kewpie doll or not. Back in New York and Detroit there had been ugly rumors about orgies in the morgue, even whispers of necrophilia. Those dark whispers, true or not, combined with his unbridled tendencies had led him, a board-certified, world-famous pathologist, to seek anonymity in the quiet sanctuary of Michigan’s Kerry County.
Ernesto Rey worked on contract, getting so much a body, more if he had to carve at night or on weekends. He did consulting work in other cities and made extra money by doing private pathology work for local doctors, looking at slides of tissue taken from living people to see if anything was wrong.
But he had made his reputation on the dead, and it was this work he really liked the best. He loved cops. He loved courtrooms. There was a large slice of ham in the good doctor and he enjoyed his time in the witness chair, combining an actor’s easy grace with his extensive medical expertise.
He pretended to like me but I knew he didn’t. In Detroit’s recorders court a few years back I had nailed him to the wall, embarrassed him, on several murder cases. It had been partly luck, but his smug arrogance made him an easy target. He might have forgiven me but he hadn’t forgotten. He smiled when we met but I always saw a hint of fear in those moist chocolate eyes.
Ernesto worked out of the basement lab of Dockland Hospital in Port Huron. After leaving Angel I drove up there to talk to him. He did the autopsy on Harrison Harwell and would appear as a witness.
Port Huron sits at the mouth of the river like the gatekeeper to Lake Huron, joined by the Blue Water Bridge to Canada’s Sarnia. Docklands Hospital is a small private operation near the center of town. I knew it well. One of the members of the Club had died there after weeks of agony. I had visited often. I felt a shudder at that disturbing memory as I parked in the hospital’s lot and walked to the basement entrance in the back.
The halls were all tile, walls, ceiling, and floor, and only a cat could have walked there without causing an echo. Rolling body carts, empty, were parked one after another in a row along one wall. The sight of them made me think of what they had been carrying.
Ernesto was lounging at a desk near the end of the hall, talking to a big-hipped nurse whose uniform was girdle tight and looked about to burst. Young, no
t much over twenty, she gazed down at the dapper doctor with awe and fascination. He looked at her like a starving cat might view a big, juicy mouse. He was jabbering away, smiling and vital, doing his best to charm this very big woman, so engrossed that he didn’t even notice my approach.
I always wondered where he got his clothes. Everything he wore looked perfectly tailored. Even his white smock looked as if it had been made for him personally.
“Hello, Ernie.”
He shot an annoyed glance my way, not recognizing me, then returned his full attention to the large female quarry in front of him.
“Ernie, I’m here on business,” I said.
The glance this time turned into wide-eyed recognition. The perpetual smile flickered out, but only for a moment. It returned instantly, even wider than before.
“Ah, Mr. Sloan How nice to see you.”
This time it was the big nurse who looked annoyed.
“Brenda,” he said, “can we continue this later? Perhaps over coffee?”
She nodded, shot me an irritated glance, then walked quickly down the hall.
We both watched her. She was a big, muscular girl, and those hips moved like giant ball bearings under the tight white uniform.
“I understand her husband is a crazy son of a bitch,” I whispered. “I hear he bit a guy’s nose off once for just looking at her.”
Ernie’s eyes widened until he realized I was kidding.
“She’s not married,” he snapped. Then, in a gentler tone, he asked, “What do you want with me?”
“We have a date in court tomorrow morning.”
He nodded. “The Harrison Harwell murder case.” He stretched out the pronunciation as if he were Sherlock Holmes reminiscing about a past triumph.
“I want to look at your file.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Ernie, nothing is impossible. I don’t want to take it, alter it, or eat it, I just want to look at it. You can even watch over my shoulder if you like.”
“It’s not a public record,” he said, his tone rising just a bit. “The only thing you’re entitled to is the autopsy report.”
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