by Dorien Grey
Gene looked out through the pass-through from kitchen to dining room long enough to smile and say, “No, no, please! You’re my guest! But thank you for offering.”
*
In addition to juice and fresh fruit, the entree was something I’d not had before, served in a large baking dish—some sort of egg/ham/torn bread casserole. It may have been easy to make but it certainly was good!
Jonathan insisted on helping to clear the table when we were through, and Gene relented to the point of having him put the dishes on the small ledge while Gene went into the kitchen to transport them to the sink.
When the table was cleared, Gene returned to the dining room with more coffee and a tin of Serrano biscotti. They are my all-time favorite. When Jonathan noted that each biscotti was individually wrapped, he looked at me and raised his eyebrows to let me know he was impressed.
We sat around talking and relaxing, and I’d all but lost my sensation of being in a play until Gene said, “So tell me, Dick, was your search successful?”
I knew—we all knew—what he was talking about. The theatrical sensation returned and grew stronger.
I sighed…and mentally put on my tap-dancing shoes. “I’m afraid my confidence in my abilities as a private investigator is somewhat overrated at times…this being one of them. I hate not being able to tie everything up with a neat ribbon.”
“But surely there were clues…” he said.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Too many clues leading in too many directions. So, much as I hate to do it, I’ll just have to leave it to the police to solve.”
“Were you able to find out what the police know?” he asked.
“Some of it,” I said without saying how, “but there was very little in the line of tangible evidence except for the note.”
“Yes, what about the note? Surely they would have been able to piece it back together and track down who wrote it.”
Piece it back together!?
It took every ounce of self-control I had not to visibly react. “Perhaps they will,” I said.
Apparently sensing that Max, Chris, and Jonathan were being left out of the conversation, Gene changed the subject, but my brain kept working with the new information and where it was leading.
I tried to keep up with our small talk while we finished our coffee and Jonathan built up a respectable pile of biscotti wrappers on the edge of his saucer.
When we’d finished our coffee and declined a refill, I took the opportunity to suggest it was about time for us to leave. We all rose from the table.
“Are you sure we can’t help you with the dishes?” Jonathan asked, and again Gene declined.
We all complimented him on his cooking, thanked him profusely for his hospitality, and took our leave.
When we reached the elevators, I waited until the doors had opened and then said, “Would you guys mind waiting for me in the park? I’ve got to go back and talk to Gene.”
All three faces reflected their puzzlement, but they said, “Sure” in unison. The doors closed and I walked back to Gene’s apartment and knocked.
He opened the door and didn’t seem at all surprised to see me.
“We’ve got to talk,” I said.
“Please,” he replied, gesturing me to a chair while he moved to the sofa.
“I’m really sorry it was you,” I said, sincerely.
“What do you mean?” he asked calmly, and I got the feeling it was the calm of resignation.
“How did you know about the note?”
“I suppose Tait told me,” he said.
“No, he didn’t,” I replied. “He didn’t want you to know he’d written it. And even if he had told you, he didn’t know it had been torn up.”
Gene stared at me without emotion, then gave me a raised-eyebrow shrug.
“I’d know Tait’s handwriting anywhere, after all these years. It wasn’t his.”
“But did you know he’d had his right thumb in a splint until the morning Rod’s body was found, and couldn’t hold a pen properly?”
He raised one eyebrow slightly. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”
The sensation of our being characters in a play was both overpowering and downright eerie.
“I didn’t know you wore a beard,” I said, as if reciting my next line.
He gave me a Mona Lisa smile. “I don’t, normally.”
“So you intended to kill Rod all along and grew a beard as a disguise,” I said, trying as good actors do to make this whole bizarre scene seem as casual as a discussion of an ordinary-day’s events.
Another smile—how in hell he could smile at a time like this I couldn’t imagine—and he said, “I didn’t grow it as a disguise but as a surprise…for Rod. He’d told me many times that he thought I would look sexy in a beard. So I grew one. For him. Ironic, isn’t it?”
Jeezus! He didn’t even ask how I knew about the beard! What’s he up to?
Well, since he knew I knew he had killed Rod, maybe he decided there wasn’t any point in trying to be evasive. And our play continued.
“I spent the two weeks before this trip at my cabin near Big Bear, alone, trying to work on a script,” he said quietly. “But all I could think of was Rod. And I kept getting these reports…”
“From Keith,” I said. I didn’t have to make it a question. Somehow I just knew. I’d been right in my feeling that Keith was not as totally uninvolved as he had implied.
He just looked at me and continued talking. “When I’m at the cabin I often don’t shave for a couple of days. But this time I thought I’d take Rod’s suggestion and try a beard. I suppose I hoped that perhaps, if I looked sexy to him….”
He paused and looked away from me, his expression changing from impassivity to sadness, but only for a moment. He brought his eyes back to me. “Foolish of me, I know,” he continued, “but oh, I did love him.”
“I believe you,” I said, and I did. “But I can’t understand how you could have killed him.”
Again, a slight shrug. “How could Othello have killed Desdemona? How could George have killed Lenny in Of Mice and Men? Love takes many different forms. I have no idea how I could have killed Rod, to be honest. It wasn’t my intention, I don’t think.”
You don’t think? Planting the seeds for an insanity defense already?
“Exactly what happened that night?” I asked. “And what happened to the guy Rod left the bar with?”
He pursed his lips in thought. “As I told you, while at the cabin I’d worked myself into such a mental state that I couldn’t have waited a moment longer to confront him. I called the airline, changed my flight, and drove directly from my cabin to the airport.
“When I arrived here, shortly after nine o’clock, I took my suitcase into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, of course—Rod never saw the point in making a bed in the morning when he was just going to get right back in it that night—and a shirt and pair of jeans was at the foot of the bed. When I picked up the shirt to put it away, a matchbook fell out of the pocket. It was from The Hole. I’d heard of it and knew its reputation, though I’d never been there. I immediately assumed Rod had been there looking for a trick. That of course only added fuel to the fire. I spent half an hour pacing the floor, trying to plan what I was going to say to him when he got home, but again, I couldn’t think. I decided to just go down to the theater and meet him there.
“I didn’t really want anyone to see me, so I used my key to go in through the lobby and looked in through the space between the auditorium doors. The rehearsal had apparently just ended, and I saw Rod standing with Cam, with his hand on Cam’s ass!
“I was both angry and humiliated, so I just turned away and left the way I’d come in, locking the door behind me, and went to the small passageway on the other side of the theater. Again, I didn’t want anyone to see me, and I guess I wanted to see if Rod would come out with anyone. If he did, I’d follow them to see where they went.”
He looked at me and sighed. “God, what
jealousy does to people!” Then he shook his head and continued. “I’d just stepped into the passageway when I saw Tait come out from the other side of the theater and walk to his car, which was parked just down the street. I watched as the cast and crew began to leave. Rod came out with Cam and Brent and a couple other cast members. They said their good-byes, and just then a cab came around the corner and Rod hailed it. There were still a few people around, so I didn’t dare step out and say anything to him, but I heard him give the driver an address—the one on the matchbook cover.
“Almost physically ill, I waited until I was sure everyone had gone, then went back into the lobby to the box office and got the gun. Don’t ask me why—I had no intention of using it, but I knew The Hole was a very rough bar in a very rough neighborhood.
“I walked a couple of blocks to where I could more easily catch a cab. I had the driver take me to The Hole and asked him to wait. He didn’t want to, but I gave him five dollars and said I’d just be a moment. I only intended to go in, find Rod, and bring him home with me. But when I opened the door to the bar, I immediately saw Rod with his hands all over another young man. I went back to the cab, paid the driver and told him he could go. Then I stood in a doorway across the street from the bar and waited. I was praying…actually praying…that Rod would come out alone and that I could talk to him.”
He fell silent and I said nothing, knowing he’d continue when he was ready. Part of me was still amazed that he could, so willingly and casually, admit to having murdered a man he loved so completely. But most of me was still caught up in the sense of playing a role in the scene. And both as a role player and a Scorpio, I could also understand why.
“When I saw them come out of the bar together and start walking away,” he resumed, “my mind stepped away from my body and all I could do was watch myself begin to follow them. I don’t know what I was thinking, if I was thinking anything at all. All I could feel was this overwhelming ache in my soul. I followed them for what seemed like forever, though it couldn’t have been more than a few blocks at most. They walked up to one of the few cars parked along the street and got in. I supposed his friend hadn’t wanted to park too close to the bar. I just stood there, expecting them to drive off. But they didn’t. I couldn’t see what was going on…it was too dark and I was too far away. But I could imagine, and very slowly I approached the car. They were apparently too busy to notice me.
I got right up to the passenger’s side, and I could see…” He looked away.
He was trying hard to control himself, but I could hear the tremor in his voice. He paused to clear his throat.
“You don’t have to go into the details,” I said softly.
“Thank you,” he said at last, and took a long, deep breath. “I’m afraid the rest of it is all rather like my watching a movie. I know I took out the gun and tapped it on the window. Rod looked up, startled, and his…partner…pulled his head out of Rod’s lap. He had the strangest look on his face—terror, I think it was. I pointed the gun at the window and heard myself say, ‘Get out of the car.’
“Rod opened the door and stepped out as I backed away. ‘What in the hell are you doing?’ he demanded. At this point, his brave young friend started the engine and raced away, the passenger door still open. Rod started to run after him, yelling for him to stop, but he didn’t.
“‘Asshole!’ he said, apparently far more concerned about his friend driving off than having me catch him having sex with another man. Then he turned back to me.
“‘Put that gun away!’ he demanded, and I put it in my jacket pocket.
“I don’t remember what we said then. I am sure I made a total fool of myself, but the conversation became heated. He told me I had no right to interfere with his life, and he of course was right. But I wasn’t Gene Morrison right then—I was some disgustingly pathetic loser begging for a love I could never have.” He took a very deep breath, which pulled his head back slightly.
“At one point, I reached out to touch him…just to touch him…and he shoved me away with such force I fell to the ground.”
His face had long ago ceased to be expressionless; it had become a stage for his emotions, and his anguish was almost palpable. I couldn’t speak, and I didn’t want to.
“If only he’d stayed,” Gene continued. “If only he’d offered to help me up, it would all have been different! But he didn’t. He started to run through the vacant lot, toward the alley behind it. Still on the ground, in utter frustration, I pulled the gun out of my pocket and fired it in his general direction. I wasn’t aiming at him, just in his direction. I hadn’t fired a gun since I was in the army, and even then I couldn’t hit anything. But I saw him fall down, face first.
“At first I thought he was faking. I got up and ran to him and knelt beside him, telling him I was sorry. But I saw the blood and the wound in his back, and I knew he was dead.”
His lower lip quivered and tears formed in his eyes. The play was over. He took a deep breath, literally pulling himself together, sitting up a little straighter and moving his shoulders back as if steeling himself to get through with his story.
“He was dead,” he repeated when his face regained its composure. “I knelt there, watching myself, cold as ice and completely numb. I emptied his pockets—again, why I don’t know, perhaps as a self-defense instinct to make it appear to have been a robbery, and I found the note. I did not recognize the handwriting. It appeared to be yet further evidence of his disloyalty. For all I knew, his ‘friend’ had written it, and their meeting had been prearranged. I stood up, tore the note to shreds, and scattered the pieces on his body as if they were rose petals. Then I just started walking—I have no idea how far or in what direction—until I could hail a cab to take me home. I had the driver drop me off a block from the apartment and came in the back entrance. The next day I awoke around noon to find myself on the couch. I got up, showered and shaved, feeling nothing at all. Rod was dead. I had killed him. And there was nothing I could do about it.
“And there you have it.” He sat back in his chair, and I could almost watch the tension drain from him.
It was an awfully elaborate story—and it could easily have been just that, a story. He’d gone to elaborate lengths to make it appear like a robbery. But it’s what a writer might well do, and looking into his eyes as he talked, I believed him.
Again, we both sat in silence for a moment, until I said, “And the gun?”
Apparently he had been lost in his own thoughts, because he seemed momentarily startled by the question.
“Oh, yes. The gun. I wiped it clean, of course, before returning it to the drawer in the box office. I was even careful not to leave any prints on the bullet I replaced in the spent chamber. And I wiped off the shell box, and the drawer handle.”
“So why did you take it later?” I asked.
He gave a slight shrug. “As a precaution, I suppose,” he said, “after I realized your diligence. I knew if the police examined the gun, they would be able to match the bullet to it. I disposed of it, the box of bullets, and what I’d…what I’d taken from his pockets. I doubt they will ever be found.”
I did not tell him that the gun he’d gotten rid of was not the one he thought it was. If he had wiped the original gun clean of fingerprints, it might be moot anyway. But still…
I’d been trying hard to keep a lid on my mind-voices, all of which were clamoring to be heard. I needed the answer to one question first.
“Why did you tell me all this? You might have gotten away with it.”
“For one thing,” he said, “I had to tell someone, and I do feel, in some strange way, that we are kindred spirits, you and I. And as for ‘getting away with it,’ there’s a chance that I might, in fact, do just that as far as the law is concerned. But do not think that for one minute for the rest of my life that I will ever be able to get away from myself. Could the law do more?”
I thought about what he’d said and realized he could be right. It would be m
y word against his (and, if there were a trial, would involve my testifying). And my “word” was, in effect, largely speculation. Sure, the police would most likely be able to trace the bullet to the gun. They might be able to make a case against Gene, assuming that they’d be able to find any prints on the gun. They might be able to track down the cab drivers who picked up a bearded man somewhere in the vicinity of the Whitman Theater and dropped him at The Hole, or the one who picked up a bearded man somewhere in the vicinity of The Hole and dropped him off a block from Gene Morrison’s apartment, or the unknown young man who was with Rod that night and was unlikely ever to go near there again. They might even track down some airline employee who remembered a bearded man getting on or off a specific airplane…but would they be able to remember the guy’s name?
Circumstantial. All circumstantial. And I had no doubt that Gene had the wherewithal to hire the best criminal lawyers available. So there was a very good chance he was right.
But most importantly, I believed him when he said he didn’t mean to kill Rod—which, sadly, did not make Rod any the less dead. And I believed living with the memory of what he had done would be a worse and longer punishment than the law could provide.
“You realize I will have to go to the police,” I said.
He smiled a gentle smile. “Of course you do. I couldn’t possibly expect you not to. You are a man of principle, after all. And I shall take my chances. Rod’s death will not go unavenged in any case. Rod’s face, and the knowledge of what I have lost and what I have taken away will be with me every day of the rest of my life. And who knows? In prison or out I can still write. And with luck I might produce something that will be of value to the world.”
He got up out of his chair and I followed as he walked me to the door.
“I might ask that you do me one favor,” he said as he reached for the knob.
“If I can,” I said.
“I expect you will tell Tait, of course, since he hired you, and I somehow expect he will understand. But I’d very much appreciate it if you didn’t tell the others. They’ll find out in due time, if I’m arrested.”
