6 Juror

by Parnell Hall

  MacAullif took a sip of coffee, shrugged. “Only way to do that is to figure out who did it.”

  24.

  I WAS ENOUGH TO GIVE ME a complex. I mean, first I drive to Harlem, and Alice and Sergeant Thurman both tell me I should be taking the subway. Then I decide I can’t get involved in this case, and Alice and Sergeant MacAullif both tell me I have to solve it. It was as if, no matter what decision I make, no matter how logical and sound it might seem to be, everyone immediately tells me I’m wrong.

  I exhaled. “Jesus Christ.”

  MacAullif nodded. “Yeah, I know. It’s a hell of a position to be in. But you’re in it, so accept it, and let’s take it from there.”

  MacAullif reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded manila envelope. He unfolded it and pulled out a stack of papers. “This is the case so far.” He put the papers on the table, held up his finger. “Now let me make one thing clear. This is not my case. This is Sergeant Thurman’s case. If you come up with anything, you tell me about it, fine, but you gotta take it to him. I can’t step on his toes here, you understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I just wanna make that clear. ’Cause I shouldn’t be doin’ this at all. But that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, here’s the dope.”

  MacAullif picked up a paper. “Preliminary autopsy report. It’s not official at all—shouldn’t even be called a report. Wouldn’t be evidence in court, but perfectly fine for our purposes.

  “First off, time of death—eight to ten hours before the body was examined. That puts it roughly between midnight and two A.M..” MacAullif looked at me. “Where were you between midnight and two A.M.?”

  “In bed asleep.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “How the hell could I prove that?”

  “What about your wife?”

  “She fell asleep before I did.”

  “So,” MacAullif said. “No alibi.”

  “My wife can swear I was undressed in bed watching the eleven o’clock news.”

  “Sure,” MacAullif said. “And then she fell asleep and you got up, got dressed, went out and killed a woman.”

  “No, I couldn’t have,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we have elevator men. And the elevator man can swear I didn’t go out.”

  “The guy’s seen you going in and out all day, how’s he gonna remember one particular trip?”

  “He would. Because the shift changes at eleven o’clock at night. The night man comes on then. Alice can swear I was in bed at eleven, and the night man can swear he didn’t see me at all.”

  MacAullif frowned. “Your building have stairs?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Then you could have taken the stairs.”

  “I could have taken ’em down, but I couldn’t have taken ’em back up.”

  “Why not?”

  “The stairwell door’s locked. You can open it going down, from the inside, to get from the stairwell to the lobby. But from the lobby side the door to the stairwell’s locked, and none of the tenants have a key.”

  “You could prop it open.”

  “What?”

  “Stick a matchbook in it so it didn’t latch. Come down the stairs, wait till the lobby’s clear, till the night man’s up in the elevator. Fix the door open with a matchbook cover. Go out, kill the woman, come back, wait till the lobby’s clear again and go up the stairs.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  MacAullif shrugged. “Hey, it’s your alibi. If it ain’t airtight, it’s no alibi. If it was really airtight, maybe we could stop doing this, but my recommendation is we keep going.”

  I sighed. “Good lord.”

  “I know,” MacAullif said. “Let’s move on. Cause of death: strangulation. Someone choked her.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Well, now it’s confirmed. It’s too bad, ’cause it probably took a man to do it. You’re big enough and strong enough.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “No, it isn’t. Physically, you could have done it. You wanna argue you’re too chickenshit, that’s an argument, but it don’t let you out.

  “All right. Was she raped? Probably not. No semen in the vagina, mouth, anus, or on the pubic hair.”

  “Good,” I said. The image was horrible enough without having to think of her being raped as well.

  “No, it isn’t,” MacAullif said. “If there was semen, you could prove it wasn’t you by blood types and this DNA shit. It wouldn’t let you off the hook entirely, ’cause the guy who fucked her didn’t have to be the guy who killed her. She could have been out gettin’ laid, and then came home and got killed.”

  “Do you have to talk about her like that?”

  MacAullif’s eyes narrowed. “Unless, of course, you were fuckin’ her anyway, in which case the semen type would match.”

  “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that. For your information, I just met this woman, I drove her to court a few times and that’s all. I’ve never been in her apartment before, or anywhere else with her. But I did know her, and this whole thing has me very upset and on edge. Now I expect this sort of shit from Sergeant Thurman, but it’s a little much hearing it from you.”

  MacAullif shrugged. “Hey, no offense, I’m just trying to get the facts. I seen the woman’s pictures. A saint would be tempted. I keep forgetting you’re a storybook hero, slightly more principled than a saint.”

  MacAullif flagged the waitress. “Hey, can I get some more of this coffee?”

  She came over and filled his cup. He dumped in cream and sugar, stirred it up, took a sip.

  “Still good the second time around.

  “Okay, let’s get back to it. The point is, according to the medical report, she probably wasn’t raped.”

  “Why probably? I thought there was no semen.”

  “Yeah, but the guy could have used a condom.”

  “A rapist?”

  “Hey, even a rapist don’t want AIDS.”

  “That’s farfetched.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, odds are, she wasn’t raped, and there’s no way to prove she was.

  “Let’s move on.” MacAullif pulled out another sheet of paper. “Report of her movements yesterday up to the approximate time of her death. This is less than helpful, since most of the information comes from you. But for what it’s worth, this is it: She spends the day in court. You give her a ride home, drop her off in front of her building around five-thirty. She has an altercation with a young man in a hooded sweatshirt. You intervene and the guy runs, not realizing you’re a cream puff. She cusses you out and goes home, presumably to change for rehearsal. You go up to Harlem to interview a client named Margaret Frazier who fractured her ankle in a trip-and-fall. Then you go photograph the crack in the sidewalk that tripped her. You point to the signed retainer and roll of film as corroboration. The woman in question confirms a man came to see her, but didn’t know your name, can’t describe you accurately, and claims the man who called on her was a lawyer.”

  I held up my hand. “That’s Rosenberg’s advertising. His TV ads say, ‘We’ll come and see you in your own home.’ It’s slightly deceptive. The clients expect a lawyer. I never say I’m a lawyer, but I walk in in my suit and tie and they just assume I am.”

  “Wonderful,” MacAullif said. “The point is, the woman didn’t identify you.”

  “She’d know me if she saw me.”

  “Yeah, if it came to that. But big deal. It’s early in the evening, has nothing to do with the murder anyway.”

  “So what’s the point?”

  “The point is, she didn’t identify you. And anything about your story that fails to check out, just gets Thurman interested in you.”

  “It will check out.”

  “Yeah. Later, if he bothers to do it. Right now it’s a detail that doesn’t check out.”

  I sighed. “Jesus Christ.”

  “So, you do all that, you’re home s
even-thirty, quarter to eight. This can be confirmed by your wife.

  “A short time later, say eight-fifteen, you get a phone call. Sherry Fontaine, presumably at rehearsal, ’cause that’s where she claims she was, apologizing for getting angry and saying she’ll see you tomorrow. The phone call is also confirmed by your wife. Not what was said, but the fact that you got the call. And the fact that the caller was a woman, whom you claim was Sherry Fontaine.”

  “What do you mean, ‘claim?’ “

  “I’m talking about what can be proved. Your wife doesn’t know it was Sherry Fontaine on the phone. She didn’t know her, couldn’t recognize her voice. She only has your word for it.”

  “This is getting ridiculous.”

  “It’s ridiculous to you because you know it was her. It’s not ridiculous to Sergeant Thurman.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, with regard to the rehearsal, confirmation is still sketchy. After all, this just happened this morning. Actors Equity confirms that Sherry Fontaine was indeed doing a showcase. Something called Love Strikes Out. They also supplied the name of the director, Walter Shelby. Shelby, contacted, expresses usual surprise and horror. States Sherry Fontaine was indeed at rehearsal last night from eight to twelve. He has no idea who she left with, or how she intended to get home. Other actors are yet to be contacted.”

  MacAullif took a sip of coffee. “Anyway, the rehearsal hall’s a loft in SoHo. That puts Sherry Fontaine in SoHo at midnight. She might have taken a subway, a taxi, or private car. If she took a subway, there’s nothing to trace, but if she took a taxi, the cops’ll be looking for the driver. She took a private car, same thing. The point is, if she’s in SoHo at midnight, no matter how she got home, she couldn’t have got uptown before twelve-thirty, quarter to one.

  “That leaves two theories: she brought someone home with her and he killed her, or she came home and someone came later and killed her. Everything points to theory two. Body naked, shower running, bath towel by the door. She came home hot and tired from rehearsal, took off her clothes, hopped in the shower. Doorbell rang, she grabbed a towel went to the door, man pushed his way in and strangled her. Simple and straightforward. So simple and straightforward, if it were in one of your goddamned books you’d think there had to be some other explanation. But basically, I think we can assume that’s what happened.”

  “Okay. Is that it?”

  “One more thing. It’s incidental, but it’s in the report. Apparently she was using drugs. Cops found drug paraphernalia in her apartment. Not drugs, just paraphernalia. Gram scale, grinder, straws. Apparently she used coke.”

  “Is that a motive for murder?”

  “Not likely. A lot of these actresses, they do drugs. The cops found it, so it’s in the report.”

  “All right, what are you going to do with all this?”

  MacAullif grinned. “Me? I’m not going to do anything with it. I’m gonna give it to you.” He passed the report across the table. “And then I’m gonna forget I gave it to you, and so will you. Should you be caught or captured, I will disavow any knowledge and all that shit.”

  I took a breath. “MacAullif. Thank you for your concern, and all that. But, Jesus, what am I supposed to do with this? I mean, most of the stuff in here is about me.”

  “This is true.”

  “So what the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “You want me to hold your hand? You’re a detective, start detecting. And just ’cause I’m not working on the case, don’t feel you’re all alone. The cops find out something, I’ll pass it along.

  “Meanwhile, you want a point of departure, you got the director, the names of the actors in there, the address of the loft where they’re rehearsing. A hot tip—according to the director they got an understudy and they’ll be rehearsing tonight. Show must go on, and all that shit.”

  “So?”

  “So, you wanna talk to the actors, here’s a good chance to get ’em all together.”

  “You said all the evidence points to the fact she went home alone and the guy came later.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So talking to these people probably won’t tell me a thing.”

  MacAullif grinned. “Probably not.”

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “Ninety percent is like that. You talk to people, you don’t learn a thing.”

  “Fuck you. You ever investigate a case where you were one of the suspects?”

  “Certainly not,” MacAullif said. “I’m just like Sergeant Thurman. I’m on the side of the angels.” MacAullif pointed to the folder. “I have to admit, it’s a pretty unpromising mess. I’m glad it’s not my case.”

  MacAullif raised his coffee as if he were making a toast. “Happy hunting.”

  25.

  THE REHEARSAL HALL WAS IN a fourth-floor loft on Grand Street. The elevator wasn’t a self-service elevator. It wasn’t a manned elevator either. It was an unmanned manned elevator, making it a non-self-service elevator you used yourself. In other words, someone had to be in it to run it. If it was on the fourth floor, you couldn’t push a button and call it down to one.

  I didn’t know all that till later, so I stood out on the street, pressing the button and wondering why the fucking thing didn’t show up. I was standing in the street because the elevator actually ran up the outside of the building, making it more like a construction elevator than anything else. Anyway, I kept pushing the button, and I could hear a faint buzz up above, but that was it.

  After what seemed like forever, but was probably not more than a few minutes, a voice said, “Hang on, for Christ’s sake.” Then I heard a clank, and the sound of the elevator rumbling down.

  The gentleman running it turned out to be a plump young man, with long but thinning yellow hair, a rather artsy-fartsy-looking sweater and slacks, and a formidable-looking watch that probably cost more than my car.

  He pulled the cage door to the elevator open and said, “What floor?”

  “Fourth.”

  The rather put-upon look on his chubby face turned to one of pure exasperation. “No, no,” he said. “We’re on the fourth floor. We’re rehearsing.”

  “I know,” I said. I flashed my ID at him briefly, stuck it back in my jacket pocket and said, “It’s about Sherry Fontaine.”

  Please understand, I did not impersonate a police officer. I flashed my ID as a private detective, which I have every right to do. And I said it was about Sherry Fontaine, which it was. And I happened to be wearing my suit, which I usually am. And if the guy wanted to assume I was a police officer, that was his business. I wasn’t impersonating one any more than I’m impersonating a lawyer when I call on Richard’s clients.

  At any rate, the guy’s expression changed. I wouldn’t say he was pleased, but he was less overtly hostile.

  He stepped aside, let me in, and ran the elevator up to the fourth floor.

  On the way up, he cautioned me. “Now I understand you gotta ask your questions. But I don’t want you interrupting rehearsal. They’re in the middle of a scene, so let ’em finish. We got problems enough without this.”

  “And who might you be?” I asked him.

  He stuck out his chin. “I,” he said, “am Marshall Crane.”

  It was a pronouncement, as if I should have heard of him. As if, if I were anyone in the theatre world, I would have heard of him. Of course, I wasn’t, and I hadn’t.

  So I wouldn’t have to comment, I nodded, whipped out my notebook and wrote it down. It was a small spiral pocket notebook I use to write down my cases. When I wrote his name in it, it occurred to me it didn’t look official, that it would tip him off to the fact that I wasn’t a cop. Then I recalled Peter Falk scrawling notes on all kinds of things in the old “Columbo” series, and again in the new “Columbo” series. So I figured, what the hell.

  Marshall Crane, whoever he was, didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy running the elevator anyway. He reached the floor, opened the door in the
side of the building, and we stepped off into a small entrance hall.

  He turned to me and put a finger to his lips. “Now, do me a favor, don’t interrupt. Go in quiet, sit in the back, let ’em finish the scene. When it’s over, you can talk to ’em.”

  Without asking me if it was okay, he pulled the door open and ushered me in.

  It was a small makeshift theatre with maybe a hundred to a hundred and fifty seats. The loft was high-ceilinged, and the seats had been tiered on risers. The floor of the back row was about up to my chin. It was theatre-in-the-round, or at least three-quarters round, with a thrust stage coming out the long sidewall of the loft, and the audience chairs tiered around it on three sides.

  We’d come in from the back of all this, so directly ahead of us was the black curtained back of the riser platform. The house lights were out, making visibility close to zero. I followed Marshall Crane around the back of the risers, down a short side aisle, up a step onto the lower platform, and up a series of platform steps to the back row. Crane slid into the second chair, leaving the chair on the aisle for me. I slid into it next to him.

  We were sitting top row center in the very back of the audience. The only other occupied chair was dead center, about halfway down. It was occupied by a skinny man with wire-rimmed glasses, a short red beard, and short clipped red hair with a bald spot in the back. A misaimed work light was shining directly off the bald spot, making it look like a bullseye.

  The rest of the work lights were shining on the stage where the actors were performing on a set consisting entirely of folding chairs and a card table.

  There were four actors, one man and three women. The man was young, with curly dark hair and a kind of athletic, pretty-boy look. The kind of look I consider the male counterpoint to the dumb blonde stereotype—the goofily handsome young stud. Kind of like the pitcher in Bull Durham. Which wasn’t that far off, since he was a baseball player in this play. It occurred to me to wonder if the play had been written after the movie.