The Book Case

by Nelson DeMille

  I looked back at the deceased and mentally pictured the bookcase falling on top of him while he worked at his desk. The force of the object would be increased by its falling speed, like that apple that hit Sir Isaac on the head. But if this was murder, it was a risky way to do it. I mean, there was no guarantee that the bookcase would kill him. Score one against homicide.

  But if it was murder, how was it done? It would take two people—or maybe one strong guy—to topple this bookcase. And obviously it would be someone he knew who was in his office at this hour. And the person or persons would say to him, “You just sit there, Otis, while we stand behind you and admire your books.” Then, “Okay, one, two, three—timber!”

  Maybe. But without the one, two, three.

  I noticed that the ten-foot-high bookcase was taller than it was wide, and the depth of the bookcase at the bottom was the same as the top, making it inherently unstable. Score another point against the bookcase being a murder weapon; it was, as Tripani said, an accident waiting to happen.

  I looked at the spatter pattern of the books, the way you look at blood spatter, and I noticed that most of the books were lying near the front of the desk, with only a few toward the rear, indicating to me that the shelves had held more books toward the top, adding to the instability. Mr. Parker, who seemed smart to me, was not too smart about the danger of top-heavy objects.

  I looked at the wall behind the bookcase and at the solid back of the piece to see if there were any screws or bolts that had pulled loose from the wood paneling. But there was nothing securing this massive piece of furniture to the wall—though I did see some old holes in the bookcase, indicating that previous owners had screwed this monster to something solid.

  Most accidents, I’m convinced, are God’s way of getting rid of stupid people. Or if you believe in Darwinism, you wonder why there are any stupid people left in the world. Well, I guess they can reproduce before they remove themselves from the gene pool.

  I also noticed that the oak floor had a slope to it, not uncommon in these creaky old buildings. The floor pitched a bit toward the desk and toward the edge of the loft. I’ve been in a thousand buildings like this, built in the last century, and the wooden rafters that hold up the floors are uneven, bowed, or warped, giving the floors some interesting tilts.

  But what was it that caused this stationary object to suddenly topple away from the wall? Objects at rest, and all that. Well, if not human hands, then a few other things could have done it, the most obvious being the building settling. This can happen even after a hundred years. That’s how these places collapse now and then. Also, you get some heavy truck rumbling by on the street, and that can cause a vibration that would topple an unstable object. Same with construction equipment and guys working underground. Vibrations are also caused by heating and air conditioning units starting up. Even badly vented plumbing or steam pipes could cause a bang in the pipes that could possibly topple something that was on the verge of toppling. That’s exactly what happened in my old East Side tenement building to my mother’s prized Waterford crystal vase that her rich aunt gave her. Actually, I broke it. But that’s another story.

  I was about to rule this a dumbicide, but then something caught my eye. I noticed on the oak floor that there was a faint outline where the bookcase had sat for some years, caused obviously by the fact that no one had washed or waxed the floor under the bookcase since it had been there. And I also noticed that there were outlines of two small objects that had sat on the floor and protruded from the front of the bookcase. You don’t have to be a detective to determine that these two outlines were made by furniture chocks or wedges—wood or rubber—that tipped the tall, heavy piece back against the wall for safety. So Mr. Parker was not so stupid—though I would have also shot some big bolts into the wall.

  Point was the bookcase was probably not on the verge of toppling forward by itself if those wedges were there. And they were there. But where were they now? Not on the floor. I looked around the room, but I couldn’t find them.

  I went to the rail and saw Officer Rourke sitting behind the counter reading a borrowed book. I called down to him, “Hey, did you see any furniture wedges on the floor when you got up here?”

  “Any…? What?”

  I explained and he replied, “No. Simmons and I ran up the stairs with the clerk, and we lifted the bookcase and leaned it back against the wall where you see it. I didn’t notice any furniture wedges on the floor.” He let me know, “Other than feeling for a pulse and heartbeat, we didn’t touch anything.” He added, “EMS arrived about three minutes later.”

  “Okay.” So this has become the Case of the Missing Furniture Wedges. Let’s assume that no one who responded to the 911 call stole two furniture wedges. Let’s assume instead that the killer took them. Right. This was no accident. Otis Parker was murdered.

  I said to Rourke, “Mum’s the word on furniture wedges.”

  I turned away from the rail and stared at Otis Parker and the bookcase. Someone was in this room with him, someone he probably knew, and that person—or persons—had previously removed the two wedges from under the bookcase. Right. Two people. One to tip the heavy bookcase back a bit and the other to slide the wedges out and pocket them. Now the bookcase is unstable, and maybe made more so if someone transferred some of the books from the lower shelves to the higher ones. Maybe this was done yesterday, or a few days ago. And unfortunately for Otis Parker, he hadn’t noticed the slight lean of his bookcase away from the wall or that the wedges were missing.

  So, early this morning, Otis Parker arrives and sits at his desk. Someone accompanied him, or met him here, probably by appointment. That person—or persons—goes to his bookcase to admire his leather-bound collection or maybe get a book. And while they’re at it, he, she, or they cause—in a manner not yet known—the bookcase to topple away from the wall, and the expected trajectory of the falling bookcase intersects with the seated victim. Splat! No contest.

  I looked around the room. Now that I suspected murder, everything looked different. And everything and anything could be a clue. Stuff in the wastebasket, the victim’s datebook, his cell phone, the contents of his pockets and the contents of his stomach, and on and on. Hundreds of things that needed to be looked at, bagged, tagged, and parceled out to the forensic labs, the evidence storage room, and so forth, while Otis Parker himself was sliced and diced by Dr. Hines. What a difference a few minutes can make.

  I surveyed the office, noting its masculine, old clubby feel. There was a large leather couch to the right of the bookcase, a few book-themed prints on the walls, and a rolling bar near the spiral staircase. I pictured Mr. Parker in here, entertaining an author, or even a lady friend, after hours.

  On the far side of the room was a long table stacked with books, and I realized that all the books were the same. Beneath the table were five open boxes that had obviously held the books. I walked to the table and saw that the book title was Death Knocks Once, and the author was Jay K. Lawrence, an author whom I’d read once or twice. I also noticed a box of Sharpies on the table, and I deduced that Jay K. Lawrence was going to be here today or in the very near future to sign his new book for the store. Or he’d already done so.

  I snapped on my latex gloves and opened one of the books, but there was no autograph on the title page. Too bad. I would have liked to buy a signed copy. But maybe Jay Lawrence would be arriving shortly, and in anticipation of this I opened to the back flap where there was a bio and photo of Jay K. Lawrence. Most male crime writers look like they used their mug shots for the book jackets, but Mr. Lawrence was a bit of a pretty boy with well-coiffed hair, maybe a touch of makeup, and a little airbrushing. Jay Lawrence’s main character, I recalled, was a tough Los Angeles homicide detective named Rick Strong, and I wondered where in Mr. Lawrence’s pretty head this tough guy lived.

  I read the short bio under the photo and learned that Jay Lawrence lived in LA. There was no mention of a wife and family, so he probably live
d with his mommy and ten cats, and he loved to cook.

  The next thing I had to do was call Lieutenant Ruiz. But if I did that, then this place would get real crowded. I needed to talk to Scott the clerk and to Mrs. Parker before this was announced as a homicide investigation, because when you say “homicide,” the whole game changes and people get weird or they get a lawyer. So, for the record, I didn’t see anything suspicious, and this is still an accident investigation.

  I heard the door open below, and I looked down to see if it was Mrs. Parker, or maybe Jay Lawrence. But it was Officer Conner with my egg sandwich, which made me just as happy. I asked Conner to leave the bag on the counter.

  My tummy was growling, but I needed to get as much done here as I could before Ruiz called me to ask what the story was. I called down to Rourke, “There may be an author coming in to sign books. Jay Lawrence. Just say there’s been an accident. I want to talk to him.”

  He nodded and I turned back to the office.

  I’m not supposed to touch or move too many things, but I did eyeball everything while my mind was in overdrive.

  There was a door to the left of the bookcase, and I opened it and walked into a small room filled with file cabinets. To the right was an open bathroom door, and I stepped inside. The lights were on, and the toilet seat was down, indicating that a lady had used it last or that Otis Parker had a bowel movement. I also noticed that the sink was wet, and there was a damp paper towel in the trash can, and that paper towel would have lots of someone’s DNA on it. It’s amazing how much evidence is left behind in a bathroom. I’d have the CSU people start here.

  I also noticed a toilet plunger standing on the floor in the corner. In the back of my mind I’d been looking for something…I didn’t know what it was, but I was sure I’d know it when I saw it. And this could be it.

  Somebody—a Greek guy—once said, “Give me a lever long enough, and a place to stand, and I can move the world.” Or a bookcase.

  Still wearing my latex gloves, I picked up the plunger and examined the wooden handle. One side of the rounded tip was slightly discolored, and there was a small dent or crease about halfway up the handle, on the opposite side of the discoloration.

  I carried the plunger into the office and stood on the left side of the bookcase. I now noticed two things—a small dimple in the wood paneling and a small crease in the back edge of the bookcase, both about chest high. These marks were barely noticeable in the hard, dark wood, but they would match perfectly with the marks on the lighter and softer wood of the plunger handle. So it was obvious to me, as it would be obvious to the CSU team, the DA, and hopefully a jury, that the killer, after excusing him or herself to use the bathroom, returned quietly to the office and quickly slipped the plunger handle between the bookcase and the wood-paneled wall. Then that person pulled on the handle, using it as a lever to tilt the unbalanced bookcase an inch or so forward until gravity took over. For every action, said Sir Isaac Newton, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

  I returned Part B of the murder weapon to the bathroom.

  Now I knew two things: Otis Parker was murdered, and I also knew how he was murdered.

  The only thing left to discover was who murdered him. And why. If you get the why, you usually get the who. As I’ve discovered in this business, when motive and opportunity coalesce, you get a crime. And when the crime is made to look like an accident, you look for someone close to the victim.

  I needed a lot more time in this office, but the office wasn’t going anywhere and someone close to the victim—Scott the clerk—was cooling his heels in the stockroom and needed to be interviewed.

  I removed my gloves and went down the stairs. I asked Rourke, “Where’s the stockroom?”

  He indicated a closed door in the rear of the long bookstore. My ham and egg on a roll was calling my name, but it’s not professional to interview a witness with your mouth full, so I just grabbed the coffee and went through the door into the stockroom.

  It was a fluorescent-lit space lined with metal shelving that held hundreds of books. The deep shelves looked stable enough, but after seeing what happened to poor Mr. Parker, the place made me nervous.

  There was a long table in the center of the room, also stacked with books and paperwork, and at the table sat a uniformed officer—Simmons—and a young gent who must be Scott. I thought I may have seen him once or twice in the store.

  There was a metal security door that led out to the back, and I opened the door and looked out into a paved yard surrounded by a brick wall about ten feet high. There were no gates leading to the adjoining backyards, but the walls could be scaled if you had something to stand on—or if you had a cop hot on your tail. Been there, done that—on both sides of the law. There was also a fire escape leading up to the top floor.

  I closed the door and turned to Scott. I identified myself, pointing to my shield—the way the lady cop did in Fargo. Funny scene.

  Officer Simmons, who’d been babysitting the witness as per procedure, asked, “Do you need me?”

  “No. But stick around.”

  He nodded, got up, and left.

  I smiled at Scott, who did not return my smile. He still looked nervous and unhappy, maybe concerned about his future at the Dead End Bookstore.

  My coffee was tepid, but I spotted a microwave sitting on a small table wedged between two bookcases, and I put my paper cup in the microwave. Twenty seconds? Maybe thirty.

  There was a bulletin board above the table with a work schedule, and I saw that Scott was scheduled to come in at eight thirty a.m. today, and someone named Jennifer had a few afternoon hours scheduled this week. Not much of a staff, which meant not many people to interview. There was also a Post-it note saying, “J. Lawrence—10:00 a.m. Tuesday.” Today.

  I retrieved my coffee from the microwave and sat across from Scott. He was a soft-looking guy in his midtwenties, short black hair, black T-shirt and pants, and a diamond stud in his left earlobe, which I think means he’s a Republican. Maybe I got that wrong. Anyway, I did remember him now—more for his almost surly attitude than his helpfulness.

  I flipped through the dozen or so pages of Scott’s handwritten statement and saw he hadn’t yet finished with his account of who, what, where, and when. In this business, short statements are made by people with nothing to hide; long statements are a little suspicious, and this was a long statement.

  As I perused his tight, neat handwriting, I said to him, “This seems to be a very helpful account of what happened here.”

  “Thank you.”

  I asked him, “Do you think the police arrived promptly?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. And the EMS?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Good.” And are you now thinking I’m here to evaluate the response to your 911 call? I’m not. I dropped his written statement on the table and asked him, “How you doin’?”

  He seemed unsure about how he was doing, but then replied, “Not too good.”

  “Must have been a shock.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Three years this June.”

  “Right after college?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good job?”

  “It’s okay.” He volunteered, “Pays the bills while I’m writing my novel.”

  “Good luck.” Every store clerk and waiter in this town wants you to know they’re really a writer, an actor, a musician, or an artist. Just in case you thought they were a clerk or a waiter. I asked Scott, “What time did you get here this morning?”

  He replied, “As I told the other policeman, I got here about seven thirty.”

  “Right. Why so early?”

  “Early?”

  “You’re scheduled for eight thirty.”

  “Yeah…Mr. Parker asked me to get here early.”

  “Why?”

  “To stock shelves.”

  “The shelves look stocked. When’s the last time
you sold a book?”

  “I had some paperwork to do.”

  “Yeah? Okay, take me through it, Scott. You got here, opened the door—front door?”

  “Yeah.” He reminded me, “It’s all in my statement.”

  “Good. And what time was that?”

  “I opened the door a little before seven thirty.”

  “And it was locked?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you know that Mr. Parker was here?”

  “No. Well, not at first. I noticed the lights were on in his office up in the loft, so I called up to him.”

  “I assume he didn’t answer.”

  “No…he…so I thought maybe he was in here—in the stockroom—so I came in here to get to work.”

  “And when you saw he wasn’t here, what did you think?”

  “I…thought maybe he was in his bathroom upstairs.”

  “Or maybe he ducked out for a ham and egg on a roll.”

  “Uh…he…if he went out, he’d turn off the lights.” Scott informed me, “He’s strict about saving energy. Was.”

  “Right.” Now he wasn’t using any energy. I said, “Please continue.”

  “Well…as I said in my statement, after about twenty minutes I carried some books to the counter up front, and I called up to him again. He didn’t answer, but then I noticed something…I couldn’t see the top of his bookshelf.”

  In fact, I’d noticed that bookshelf myself on my two or three visits here. You could see the top two or three shelves from the front of the store. But not this morning.

  Scott continued, “I didn’t know what to make of that at first…and I kept staring up at the office…then I went halfway up the stairs and called out again, then I went all the way up and…”

  Rourke said Scott looked nervous, but now Scott looked appropriately distraught as he relived that moment of horror when he found his boss flattened by a half ton of mahogany and books.

  I didn’t say anything as he spoke, but I nodded sympathetically.