Dead Center ac-5

by David Rosenfelt

  The topic I’m here to discuss is the ongoing trial of Bruce Timmerman, the CEO of a technology company who is accused of murdering his wife as she slept in their bed. Timmerman claims that he came home late from a meeting and found her dead, the victim of a robbery gone violent.

  The case doesn’t interest me in the slightest, and all I know about its current status is the brief report I heard on the radio while driving to the studio. Fortunately, lack of knowledge is not a handicap to pundits like me, and I start the segment by pointing out that the prosecutor has not been presenting an effective case. I say this even though I wouldn’t know the prosecutor if he walked into the studio, pulling his case in a wagon.

  My former-prosecutor panelmate starts vehemently disagreeing with me, and I’m about to counter his counter when the host of the show cuts in. “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but we have to go out to Findlay, Wisconsin, for a breaking story. Please stay with us.”

  Hearing him say “Findlay, Wisconsin” is jolting, since that’s where Laurie now lives. But that jolt doesn’t compare to the one I receive when there, on the monitor in a police uniform, is Laurie herself.

  This is not going to be fun.

  • • • • •

  THROWING UP ON national television would be rather embarrassing, but at this point it’s a real concern. The sight of Laurie on the five monitors that I can see from my studio vantage point is so jarring that there is a definite chance I will unload my morning bagel on the table.

  Laurie is at a makeshift podium in front of what appears to be a government building. When I first started coming on TV, they told me that the camera adds ten pounds to a person. If that’s the case, they must use different-type cameras in Wisconsin, because Laurie hasn’t gained an ounce.

  Since she’s behind a podium, it would be hard for the viewer to know that she is five foot ten. I’m five ten too, but I always used to claim that I was five ten and a quarter. That seemed a little obvious, so I changed my height to five ten and a half, which I’ve since rounded up to five eleven. It’s the first growth spurt I’ve had since high school.

  Standing behind Laurie are five men, four wearing dark suits and the fifth in an officer’s uniform. She is talking to an assembled group of perhaps twenty members of the press, though it is hard to see from the camera’s vantage point. The graphic along the bottom of the screen identifies her as the Findlay, Wisconsin, Acting Chief of Police.

  “I just have a brief announcement to make, and then I’ll answer a few questions,” Laurie says. “A little more than an hour ago, officers placed Jeremy Alan Davidson under arrest for the murders of Elizabeth Barlow and Sheryl Hendricks. The bodies of the victims were recovered pursuant to a search warrant on Mr. Davidson’s home.”

  She starts taking questions, though provides very little in the way of answers, claiming that she cannot discuss evidence in an ongoing investigation. She does say that the cause of death in both cases is believed to be multiple stab wounds, but that autopsies are being conducted. Being on national television, especially to announce an arrest, should be a big moment in any small-town police officer’s career, yet Laurie looks as if she would rather be anywhere else than where she is.

  I’m fascinated by what I’m watching, while at the same time wishing I could turn it off. The fact that I’m in a studio surrounded by monitors makes turning it off impossible and quite frustrating: I’m used to ruling my television with an iron remote control.

  My mind keeps flashing to good times that we had together, times I have tried these last months to forget. Denial is a difficult state to remain in, but intentional, conscious denial is that much tougher. Until now I was doing pretty well at it.

  Laurie ends the press conference rather abruptly, turning and walking back toward the building. The men that were standing behind her follow her as she goes; at least some of them might be the town’s political leaders, yet Laurie seems very much in charge. I feel a flash of pride in her, which subsides when I force myself to remember how much I hate her.

  Within moments the red light is on and we’re back on the air. Spencer reminds the TV viewers that we’re in the middle of a discussion of legal issues, and he directs his first question at me.

  “Andy, before we get back to the Timmerman case, didn’t you once work with Laurie Collins, the police chief conducting that press conference?”

  I nod weakly. “I did. She was my investigator before she moved back to Findlay.”

  “And you represented her when she was herself accused of murder, did you not?”

  “I did. She was wrongly accused and completely exonerated by a jury.”

  “And just so our audience will know the full picture, is it true that Laurie Collins, the love of your life, dumped you? And is it also true that you didn’t have sex until Rita Gordon took pity on you last night?” Spencer doesn’t ask me these questions; they only reside in the pathetic recesses of my mind.

  We go back to discussing the Timmerman case, though for the moment I forget who Timmerman is and what his case might be. We’re on for another five minutes, which seem like five hours, and as soon as the light goes off, I head for my car. I know one thing: If the murder in Findlay becomes a subject of these cable discussions, my career as a pundit has come to an end.

  It’s only just past noon when I leave, which seems too early to get drunk or commit suicide, so I head back to the office. It hasn’t been a beehive of activity in recent months, but I usually hang out there for a couple of hours a day. It gives me the illusion that I actually have a job.

  Waiting for me there is Edna, my longtime secretary. Work has never been Edna’s passion, and she would be quite content if I never took on another client. She spends her six-hour day working on her crossword puzzle skills, which are world-class.

  Edna just about jumps out of her chair and rushes toward me when I come in. Fast movements by Edna, rare that they may be, always worry me. That is because she carries her crossword pencils everywhere… in every pocket, in her ear, sometimes in her mouth. I’m always afraid that she is going to slip and impale herself.

  “Andy, I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “We need to talk about my microwave.”

  “Your microwave.”

  “Right. Remember I left it to my Aunt Helen?”

  It’s all I can do to stifle a moan. Two months ago I agreed to Edna’s request that I help her draw up a will. It was a prudent move on her part, since her estate is fairly considerable. A while back I divided the million-dollar commission that I earned in the Willie Miller lawsuit among Edna, Laurie, and Kevin Randall, my associate in the firm.

  Willie and the other beneficiaries of my largesse have since almost doubled their money with successful, albeit bizarre, investment decisions, while I have been decidedly less fortunate. Edna’s share is now worth almost four hundred thousand dollars, and if that were the reason for her sudden urge to have a legal will, I would be more tolerant of the process. But it is not.

  Edna has the largest extended family in America. There is simply no one that is not related to Edna on some level, either by family or by friendship, and she feels obligated to leave something to every single person she has ever encountered.

  At this point the will is a seventy-one-page document, and until moments ago I thought it was a seventy-one-page finished and approved document. But now Edna tells me that she visited her Aunt Helen over the weekend and discovered that Helen possesses a state-of-the-art microwave, far nicer than the one Edna was planning to leave her.

  She has it all figured out. “I want to take the ficus plant that I left to cousin Sylvia and give it to my Aunt Helen. Helen’s microwave can go to Uncle Luther, who loves popcorn, and Luther’s poker chips can go to Amy, my hairdresser, who has a regular game. I’ll give Sylvia the scented candles I bought in Vermont last year.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say. “It’s exactly what I was going to suggest.”

  She nods in satisfaction. “I’ll type it up.”


  She heads off to do just that, and I proofread it when she’s finished. After that, I hang around until it’s time to head to Charlie’s, the best sports bar/restaurant on the planet.

  I often talk about how great it is to live just a half hour from New York City, which provides me access to the finest theaters, museums, and restaurants in the world. The way I take advantage of this access is to hang out every night at Charlie’s, which is about eight minutes from my house.

  Charlie’s has forty or fifty tables, and never has a room been designed more perfectly. Each table is within twenty-five feet of the bar and forty feet of a restroom and has a direct line of sight to at least a half dozen televisions showing sporting events.

  Waiting for me at our regular table are my friends Pete Stanton and Vince Sanders. Pete is a lieutenant in the Paterson Police Department, and Vince is the editor of the local newspaper. Both distinguished citizens, except for the fact that when they’re not working, they have the combined maturity age of eleven.

  Pete is six three and slim, while Vince is five eight and round. They remind me of Abbott and Costello, but with less dignity.

  Before I join them, I make a quick phone call to place a bet on the Mets game that we will be watching. When I go to the table, everything looks normal: Every square inch of it is covered with burgers, french fries, and beer. However, I soon sense that something is amiss, as ten minutes go by without either of them insulting me.

  I decide to confront them. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  They spend the next few minutes denying that anything at all is going on when suddenly Vince asks, “What did you do today? Work… watch television… what?”

  “I saw Laurie, if that’s what you want to know.”

  Vince feigns surprise. “Oh, was she on?”

  “Yeah.”

  Pete chimes in. “She ain’t looking so great, I’ll tell you that.”

  Even if I hadn’t seen her, I would know this is nonsense. Pete and I are both aware that Laurie would look good if she were wearing a storage bin. “Thanks, Pete, that’s really helpful.”

  “You should take out Karen Sampson.”

  Karen Sampson is a friend of Pete’s wife’s who is completely unappealing to me in both looks and personality. “I don’t think so,” I say. “I think she’s more Vince’s type.”

  Vince considers this for a moment and shrugs. “Sure, I’ll take her out. Why not?”

  “Why not?” Pete asks. “’Cause I like her, and ’cause she’s a normal human being, that’s why not.”

  The conversation continues like this for a few hours, with the intellectual content inversely proportional to the number of beers consumed. By the time I’ve lost my bet on the Mets, I’m ready to go home, though Vince and Pete seem glued to their chairs.

  When I arrive home, I have one of those moments that come from out of nowhere and, while seemingly insignificant, can prove to be life-altering. I walk into the kitchen, and there is an empty pizza box on top of the sink. It’s been there for two days, and the dishes under it established squatter’s rights well before that.

  I guess it’s been precipitated by my seeing Laurie today, but whatever the reason, it suddenly hits me. I don’t want to live like this. I’ve always felt anger toward Laurie since she left, but now it comes to the fore and is directed at myself as well. She’s gone, that’s over, and it’s time for me to take control of myself and my life.

  It’s time for me to get a grip.

  • • • • •

  THE VOICE ON the phone says, “Hello, Andy.” Since it’s my phone I’ve picked up, this is not a particularly shocking statement. What sends a jolt of electricity through my body is the fact that the voice belongs to Laurie.

  It’s rare that I’m rendered speechless, but this seems to be one of those times. Though I don’t say anything, my mind and eyes are still working, and I pick up on the fact that the clock says five-fifteen, and the call has woken me from a deep sleep. In fact, there’s probably an eighty percent chance that I’m dreaming.

  I sit up and turn on the light on the night table, as if that will help me understand what is happening here. I glance at Tara, lying on the end of the bed, but she looks as confused as me.

  “Andy, it’s Laurie.” These new words provide just as big a jolt and cut the dream likelihood down below fifty percent. I also feel a flash of worry: It’s got to be four-fifteen in Wisconsin. Why is she calling me in the middle of the night?

  “Hello, Laurie,” I say, displaying my keen conversational touch and rapier wit. This is not fair. The suddenness of the call and the time of day have left me without a strategy. Should I sound angry? Concerned? Aloof?

  Maybe I should pretend there’s a woman lying next to me. I could giggle a couple of times and say, “Bambi, stop that. I’m on the phone.”

  Or maybe I should be honest. But if I adopted such an uncharacteristic strategy, what would that honesty consist of? Maybe I should fake honesty… I think I can pull that off.

  “I’m sorry I called you at this hour, Andy. But I need help.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Actually, it’s not me that needs help. It’s someone else.”

  My mind is not processing this too well. What the hell is she talking about? “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I arrested somebody today… for two brutal murders. It’s a young man. I’ve known his family since I was a child.”

  “I saw you on television.”

  “The thing is, I’m not sure he did it, Andy.”

  “Then why did you arrest him?”

  “Because the evidence is there; I had no choice. A jury will convict him without question. But I know this kid… and I just don’t buy it.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Talk to his father. You’re better at this than anyone I know, and I know I have no right to be calling you, but I felt I had to.”

  “Laurie, I know nothing about this case. What am I going to tell his father: to keep a stiff upper lip?”

  “Forget it, Andy,” she says. “I shouldn’t have asked.” Then, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, she asks, “How are you?”

  “Fine… really good. I’m married with two kids. Right now we’re working on their college applications.”

  Laurie laughs her pure, uninhibited laugh. It’s a sound that brings back such pleasant memories that I wish I could bottle it. “Thanks, Andy. I haven’t laughed in a while.”

  “I’m here to serve.”

  There is another protracted silence, less uncomfortable this time. Then, “I’ve got to go, Andy. It was good talking to you… good to hear your voice.”

  “Same here.” This couldn’t be more true; just the sound of her voice rekindles long-dormant feelings, feelings that were so good I’ve devoted all my energies to trying to forget that I don’t experience them anymore.

  “Bye,” she says.

  “Laurie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have the guy call me.”

  “Thank you, Andy. Thank you so much.”

  Click.

  Thus concludes my first conversation with Laurie in four and a half months. Simultaneously concluding is my “get a grip” vow from the night before. What I’m reduced to now is replaying the conversation in my mind, judging my performance, and trying to decipher if she had other motivations for calling besides helping the guy she arrested.

  I take Tara for a quick walk and then head for the office. It’s Saturday, so Edna is not there to bombard me with questions about the status of her estate. I’m not exactly a champion Internet surfer, but I know how to find out-of-town newspapers online, and I read as much as I can about the murders in Findlay.

  Most of the papers have picked up the AP story, which reports the basic fact that Jeremy Alan Davidson, twenty-one, a resident of Findlay, Wisconsin, was arrested for the stabbing murders of Elizabeth Barlow and Sheryl Hendricks, residents of Center City, about ten miles
from Findlay.

  Davidson and Barlow were students at the Findlay campus of the University of Wisconsin and were said to be planning to marry. Speculation is that Barlow broke off the relationship and went home to Center City, where she and her friend Hendricks commiserated over the situation. Davidson, unable to handle the rejection, is said to have gone crazy and murdered both Barlow and Hendricks, who had the misfortune to be with her friend at the time. The bodies were buried in a hurried, makeshift grave in Davidson’s backyard.

  The Milwaukee Journal, the home-state paper of record, goes one step further and alludes to a religious conflict between Barlow and Davidson, speculating that perhaps she chose “her faith” over him and that he could not tolerate that. The reporter does not have many specifics, but the religion speculation presents an interesting aspect to the case. Conflicts about religion have broken up many young couples over the years, although to my knowledge it’s quite rare that they lead to murder.

  I’m about to head home to watch some college football when the phone rings. It’s unusual for it to ring in the office on a Saturday; in fact, lately, it doesn’t ring much at all. I have a quick flash of hope that it might be Laurie, which is supported by the caller ID showing an area code I don’t recognize.

  “Hello,” I say, figuring just in case it’s Laurie, I might as well be at the top of my conversational game.

  “Mr. Carpenter?” It’s a male voice that I don’t recognize, and definitely not Laurie.

  “Speaking.”

  “My name is Richard Davidson. Laurie Collins said that you would speak to me.”

  “Right.”

  “Would now be a good time?” he asks.

  “As good as any.”

  “I can be at your office in less than an hour. If that’s okay.”

  This is not computing. Wisconsin is not an hour away. If it were, Laurie and I would still be living together. “Where are you?”