Doubt in the 2nd Degree

by Marc Krulewitch

  “See how lucky you are?” I said.

  “No,” she said. “You’re the lucky one.”

  —

  Penguin House’s mix of older hippies, post-hippies, hipsters, yuppies, muppies, and brogrammers slowly dissipated between four-thirty and six, leaving behind a kind of sad, abandoned atmosphere. As one of the few patrons still remaining—all of us sitting alone—it occurred to me that I belonged to a yet-to-be-named cultural stereotype. Maybe it was the image of the proverbial outsider looking in that kept me coming back to Penguin House.

  Not until seven or so did the evening crowd arrive and renew the familial energy coffee shops craved. As planned, Debbie arrived during the lull. As she had at Café Schmaltz, she appeared as the picture of preoccupation, messenger bag slung over her shoulder. A few heads turned when the bag thumped to the floor. The Band-Aid above my brow went unnoticed.

  “Okay,” she said. “Talk.”

  At that moment I really disliked her. “Has the state’s attorney ordered DNA tests on the skin shavings I saw in one of the crime scene photos?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I want to see the lobby’s CCTV video from Thursday to Monday. I didn’t see it listed in the police report.”

  Debbie nodded then scribbled on her notepad. I felt better about her. “What else?” she said.

  “The couch was flush against the wall. So there was no sneaking up on Whitney. The hammer must’ve been on the killer or lying nearby. Three blows to the head, all striking within centimeters of each other. I think the assailant came upon Whitney suddenly, completely unexpected.”

  “The killer was known to the victim. Old news.” She annoyed me again.

  “The thumbprint on the hammer was on the metal shaft above the rubber grip. That’s how you would hold a hammer to carefully tap in a nail for hanging pictures. You don’t choke up on the grip if you want to smash someone’s head in.”

  Debbie started scribbling again then looked up. “Although they could argue she grabbed the hammer high on the shaft, then adjusted her hand to the rubber grip.”

  “No blood on the floor. The murderer either dragged or carried the victim at least fifty feet to the bedroom closet while taking care to keep the head in an upright position, so it wouldn’t drip.”

  “Dead already,” Debbie said as she got to her feet. “The blood stops flowing. I need caffeine. You want the mocha-soy-thing?”

  “Sure.”

  After she returned with a large black coffee and my mocha I said, “Dr. Kessler thinks McCall was stealing his rent and telling Whitney he wasn’t paying.”

  Debbie thought about it. “Yeah? I say Kessler’s a thief. Maybe we can dig up some dirt, like gambling debts.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was serious. “I want to confirm Kessler didn’t return to the apartment after May fifteenth.”

  “You told me that already. What about Whitney’s friends?”

  “George Mason and Linda Napier both hate McCall. Apparently Jackie Whitney was supporting McCall financially. In exchange, Kate had to endure Jackie Whitney’s controlling behavior. They think her hillbilly side eventually snapped—maybe after a condescending remark—and she killed Whitney.”

  Debbie began bending her neck at different angles, then held up her arms as if imitating a chicken. She finished her calisthenics with torso rotations before pulling a FedEx envelope from her messenger bag and handing it to me. Inside was a manila envelope containing several stacks of banded cash.

  “It arrived this morning,” Debbie said then started gathering her belongings. “I’ll look into getting the closed circuit video.”

  “Jackie Whitney was a big animal lover who spent a lot of time and money at a humane shelter. Usually, the big donors have lots of ass-kissers sucking up to them. I thought I’d go there.”

  Debbie appeared confused as she tried to find a comfortable position for the messenger bag to lay against her side. “Okay,” she said then walked away.

  Chapter 9

  A Georgian bazaar came to mind as I entered Tamar’s apartment and took in the aromas of onion, garlic, walnut, and spices. I presented her with a small bouquet of red and pink roses and daisies. She kissed me, led me to a love seat where two plates with fruit pastries waited on the coffee table, then put the flowers in a vase. That the pastries most certainly contained butter was the furthest thing from my mind. She wore slim-fitting, tapered jeans with a willowy blue camisole. Her black hair fell silky clean over her shoulders. Near the corner of the room, the buzz-kill better known as Whistler’s Mother from Hell rocked quietly in front of St. Andrew and her deceased son.

  “Sorry,” Tamar said. “I’m on my own with Deida tonight. Sit.” I obeyed. She walked to the kitchen then returned with two glasses of red wine.

  “How can you have such a beautiful body and own a bakery?”

  Tamar smiled, maybe a little embarrassed. “I’m too busy to think about the food.”

  “How does it feel to be a woman of leisure for eight hours?”

  We both sipped. She said, “I guess I’ll get used to the pressure and responsibility. At least I hope so.”

  I wanted to say something that didn’t sound trite. Instead, I took a bite of my pastry. Tamar said, “You don’t like wine, do you?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Involuntary facial contractions then a large bite of the khachapuri.”

  “It’s all cough syrup to me.”

  Tamar laughed. “You met your new client?”

  “Yes. She has a mysterious benefactor paying for my services.”

  “Hmmm. Interesting, but sounds fishy.” Tamar took a healthy sip then said, “You’re thinking about something. I can read you like a book.”

  “There’s this—person. A man—a woman transitioning to a man—”

  “A transman.”

  “Exactly. Jackie Whitney had a close relationship with this person before and during his transition. I’m just wondering how close they actually were.”

  Tamar stared at me with her tired brown eyes. “You mean did they have a sexual relationship?”

  “Yeah. There’s always that physical attraction issue I have to consider. Signals crossed, signs misread, friendship misinterpreted as something else. You know what I mean?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Tamar said as she tried to suppress a yawn. “What else is on your mind?”

  “The public defender I’m working with is intense. Her name is Debbie Lopez. A true believer with no sense of humor. She’s obsessed with filling a jury’s head with reasonable doubt. She doesn’t give a damn who the real killer is. This approach conflicts with my natural tendency to solve a crime.”

  “You have conflicting goals.”

  “Mos def. I think I have a better idea of the victim’s personality.”

  “Jackie Whitney the socialite.”

  A short, gravelly screech ensued, sending a shiver through my heart. Tamar walked to the old lady, knelt down, then said something quietly in her ear. The replying noise was low and groaning, like a creaking door. After a few exchanges Tamar returned to the love seat.

  “What did she…?”

  “I don’t know. Something about her uncle who used to sleep with his Caucasian shepherd dogs—I think.”

  I tried not to laugh. Tamar said, “Just like the wine, your face gives you away. Go ahead and laugh. It’s okay.” Tamar wasn’t smiling.

  I said, “Back to Jackie Whitney. She liked giving people money and friendship, but expected obedience in return. And she was brutally honest to her followers. If you wanted to stay in her good graces, you’d better follow her advice.”

  Tamar bit into her pastry. I finished mine. “I hate people like that,” she said with a bitterness that transformed her personality. “She must’ve been a seriously double-edged sword. Some people can only take so much abuse. They stuff down the resentment because they want the money, but they’re having violent fantasies. I bet somebody snapped and that was i
t. Killed her.”

  “You’re not the only one who thinks that.”

  Tamar lit up. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. Don’t be surprised how clever you are.”

  “How many suspects do you have?”

  “How many is everyone?” I wanted to sound funny, but it was true.

  “Everyone? Even me?”

  “Sorry. Not you. But I’ve become pretty cynical about human motivation. Anyone is capable of crossing lines we were taught not to cross. It just depends what pushes your buttons. Everyone has a dark side. I don’t care who you are.”

  Tamar averted her gaze, took another sip of wine. Then she brought our dishes to the kitchen and returned with two bowls and a plate of bread.

  “Spiced bean-veggie soup with corn bread.”

  Relaxed yet exhausted, we made refreshingly animated small talk. Reflecting on the state of the bakery and her role as leader, she laughed at quirky employees, bizarre customer requests, and how petty Georgian rivalries traversed two continents and an ocean, only to surface in her prep kitchen. Our dialogue became an effortless give-and-take of humorous, ironic, and philosophical anecdotes, the kind of conversation that squashed the concept of time into a single moment. Even the old lady’s shrieks sounded less fiendish. Tamar checked her watch.

  “I need to get Deida to bed,” Tamar said.

  I watched her gently coax the old lady out of the chair before leading her away. Fifteen minutes later, Tamar reappeared, gave me a knowing look, then walked to her bedroom.

  As enjoyable as the evening had been, so was the three A.M. alarm unpleasant. How can you live like this? I thought as my eyes struggled with the ceiling light. On the way out, Tamar deadpanned, “I brush my teeth and eat breakfast at the bakery, which allows me to sleep in a bit.”

  —

  No surprise Punim stood wild-eyed in the middle of the room. Three-thirty A.M. was dash-around-chasing-invisible-prey time in her untamed circadian rhythm. I dozed off as she finished her rounds.

  At nine I stood in the shower, vaguely aware of having slept. During breakfast, I looked at the Furry Best Friends Forever website again. Animal sheltering had become corporate. Furry BFF had a CEO, president, treasurer, secretary, board of directors, and development board. The fundraising boss would know someone as wealthy as Jackie Whitney. They opened at ten.

  I took the Brown Line to Armitage then walked about five blocks to Furry BFF. The sleek, two-story, concrete and steel building reminded me of an architectural design firm. The lobby was bright and airy with blond bamboo flooring and had the feel of a modern library reading room. Humans and dogs occupied U-shaped sectional sofas. Oversized chairs surrounded a large fountain of rustic mosaic stone with terra-cotta spill pots. The animals lived in roomy, naturally lighted condos where they stretched out across wooden tables or curled up on chairs or giant pillows. Mobs of puppies and kittens wrestled, played tug-o’-war, chewed toys, or slept partially visible in little houses. A section of one wall was designated for thanking benefactors. Below the picture of an older, white-haired gentleman, deemed the Francis of Assisi Champion, was a headshot of “patron saint” Jacqueline Charlotte Whitney.

  I asked a woman behind the reception counter who was in charge of fundraising. “Her name is Lucille Mackenzie,” she said. “You’ll find her on the second floor where all the admin offices are.”

  “Do I need an appointment?”

  She laughed. “No. Just go up and ask around.”

  A flight of stairs led to a large room with offices spaced along the perimeter. A few people worked at desks within the periphery but most of the space was occupied by dogs, sleeping or playing. None of the offices had nameplates. A young man asked if I needed help.

  “I’m looking for Lucille Mackenzie,” I said.

  He began counting offices, moving clockwise from the entrance. “That one,” he said. “Sixth door down.”

  Lucille Mackenzie’s door was wide open, as were all the office doors. I lurked near the entryway a few moments then poked my head in. She looked familiar sitting behind the cherrywood desk talking on the phone. Mid-thirties, with flowing honey-blond hair, she spoke teasingly in a contrived childlike voice. “Of course I love you, silly boy!” she said. “Cha-cha-cha later?” Her large brown eyes looked crazy with excitement, like a little girl just given a pony for her birthday.

  A colorful horse-motif scarf adorned her neck over a low-cut blouse displaying more than a peek of cleavage. A small red Chanel handbag lay on her desk next to a basket of fruit mixed with a colorful floral arrangement. On the walls, Picasso, Warhol, and Hockney displayed their modernist dachshunds alongside leaps and lunges of modern dancers. I was about to back away when she smiled and waved me forward, as if delighted to see me. She emphatically pointed at the chair in front of her desk.

  I sat then leaned forward to read the card attached to the fruit basket. May our Rest-in-Peace basket ease the pain of your loss. Your friends at Youji Lu Grocer. “I lost one of my kitties just a few days ago,” she said, startling me with the sudden transformation into an all-business voice. “My grocer heard about it and sent me this condolence basket. Now, that’s what I call customer service.” She laughed. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  I introduced myself and handed over my ID. Her smile wavered then disintegrated as she handed it back. I said, “Did you know Jackie Whitney well?”

  Lucille nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Jackie was a special person around here. Especially to me.”

  I realized why Lucille looked familiar. “You were personal friends, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “In her apartment, I saw a picture of you and Jackie kneeling on either side of a very big dog.”

  Lucille grinned. “Buttons. A big, sweet old girl. Jackie and I were so happy to find her the best possible home.”

  “Do you know the woman they arrested?”

  “Do you think she did it?”

  “I don’t know. Do you know her?”

  “I know only what I’ve heard on the news or read in the papers.”

  “What about Jackie’s old friends Linda Napier and George Mason? Do you know them?”

  “My God, are they suspects?”

  “Investigations usually start with friends and family. It’s really just routine.”

  Lucille sighed. “Linda was a lost soul. My heart goes out to her.”

  “Care to share?”

  “About two years ago she started volunteering. Unfortunately, she kept showing up drunk or spaced out like she forgot where she was. I spoke to her several times about her behavior. She promised to shape up, but nothing changed and she made the other volunteers nervous. Finally, I had to tell her she couldn’t volunteer anymore.”

  “Jackie knew what was going on?”

  “Oh, yeah. She supported my decision.”

  “What about George?”

  “I don’t know George. Jackie talked about him and I knew they were very close, but we were in different circles.”

  “You were in the fundraising, gift-giving, donor appreciation circles?”

  Lucille hesitated. “Yes, but not in the snobby way you’re suggesting.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “No, no, you’re fine. It’s my fault. I’m overly protective of my donors.”

  “Jackie is the patron saint, I noticed.”

  “She’s been a godsend for the shelter to achieve its vision. And our wonderful volunteers are the heart and soul of the shelter.”

  “Would you say Jackie built this place?”

  “Well, that’s probably over the top.”

  “Do other officers or VIPs get involved with donors?”

  Lucille tapped the eraser end of a pencil on the desk a few times. “Follow the money! That’s what you’re doing, right?”

  I pretended to think about it. “Unconsciously, maybe. But I’m a very curious person. I like to understand how organizations operate.” />
  “The paid staff is small, so many of us do a lot of different jobs. I’m the primary fundraiser but I also work closely with the treasurer. Unfortunately, as is the case for most nonprofit treasurers, Elaine has lots of demands on her time.” Lucille sighed. “She’s very overworked. There, I said it. Anyway, I help Elaine by taking care of various admin tasks so she can focus on financial reporting.”

  “You must be good friends, working so closely together.”

  “Yes, Elaine and I have become very good friends. I think you’ll find people who choose to work for a humane animal shelter often share common values. And making our biggest donors feel special and appreciated is also a crucial part of my job. If they want to be my friend, I’m thrilled.”

  “You must be doing a hell of a good job. I mean, this is an amazing, modern, high-tech facility. It must’ve cost a fortune.”

  Lucille blushed. “Our capital campaign was a great success. But it still takes lots of money to maintain the building and provide quality care for the animals.”

  “I heard that Jackie Whitney could be a challenging friend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Quick to welcome you into her world but brutally honest. Happy to help a friend out with money, but acting as though the money gave her the right to control you.”

  “Oh, I don’t agree. Not in my experience.”

  “Can a donor stipulate how the money should be used?”

  “Yes, they can put restrictions on their donations. It can be tricky sometimes.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with Jackie Whitney?”

  “In May, before she came back.”

  “Do you remember the conversation?”

  “Just that her renter was being a pain in the tush and she was cutting her vacation short, and that we should get together. That kind of thing.”

  “But she never mentioned Kate McCall?”