A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  The woman moved the wand microphone beneath her own face to ask, “Do you want to give us her address, Lieutenant?”

  “Not at this time. However, I would like to say that we have reason to believe that someone—a man—drove her car from Golden Gate Park to her apartment house. And we’d like to talk to that man.”

  “That would be what time, Lieutenant?”

  “Between midnight and one A.M., we think. Wednesday night.”

  “So someone drove her car from Golden Gate Park to her apartment. And that was done after she was murdered. Is that correct?”

  “We’re not sure about the sequence of events. That’s one of the questions we’d like to ask this individual.”

  “Would you care to describe him?”

  The policeman shook his head. “Not at this time.”

  “But you do have a description. Is that correct?”

  He nodded. “That’s correct.”

  With the words—the two words, two quiet-spoken detonations—the camera shifted to the woman, who said, “Is there a special number, Lieutenant, that people can call?”

  “No. The Homicide Bureau is enough. That’s in the Hall of Justice.”

  “The Homicide Bureau—” As the woman repeated the words, the camera began moving, closing on her face. “If there’s anyone out there who can help Lieutenant Hastings and the men in Homicide find the person who murdered Meredith Powell on Wednesday night, we join with the police department in asking you to help, to come forward. In eight out of the past ten years, the annual homicide rate in San Francisco has risen. We can’t reverse the trend unless you help.” A long, terminal pause as the woman looked solemnly into the camera. Then, the sign-off: “This is Terry Tricomi, KGBA news.”

  It was important, he knew, that he chronicle his reactions: the physician, taking his own pulse.

  But you do have a description.

  It was, after all, a part of the calculus, a calculated risk, calculus and calculated, the same root. Laws were made for the masses, but a snare laid for a jackal could entangle a lion.

  That’s correct, the policeman had answered.

  The woman had asked whether the police had a description of the man. The policeman had nodded, then mouthed the phrase: That’s correct. Echoing now. Reechoing.

  When they’d come to the door to ask about Tina, he’d been in control: the lord of the manor, receiving his serfs. Yes, he’d known Tina. No, he couldn’t help them with their investigation. Yes, he’d call them if he thought of anything.

  After he’d closed the door he went to a window and watched them walk to their car. They were detectives, like the man in the TV news. For several minutes they’d sat in their car, talking, occasionally glancing at the house. Watching them, he’d begun to tremble uncontrollably.

  Just as now he was beginning to tremble: a terrible, tremulous quaking, his body unhinged.

  6:20 P.M. “This is Terry Tricomi,” the woman was saying, looking squarely at the camera. “KGBA news.”

  The small portable television set was on a low bench: a weathered wooden driftwood plank resting on two fieldstone pedestals. Except for the bench, a leather sling chair, an easel, and a high wooden stool, the stark white room with its lofty ceiling and its roughly plastered walls was bare. The room was illuminated by overhead track lighting: contemporary black fixtures contrasting with the rough white texture of the walls and ceiling. A rectangle of black canvas rested on the easel.

  Dressed in a long, roughly woven peasant caftan, barefoot, Charles stood leaning against the wall, his eyes fixed on the TV screen as a studio announcer began describing a train derailment in Nevada. He stepped to the TV, switched it off.

  But you do have a description, the woman had said.

  That’s correct had come the answer.

  Two words, spoken by the same man he’d seen on Tuesday lunching with Meredith Powell.

  Standing beside the bench, Charles held out both arms, fingers widespread. They were steady. Superhumanly, triumphantly steady. Just as he, within himself, was superhumanly steady, his little secret, his passport to everything.

  He turned to survey the room. Had he somehow sensed that he’d see the police lieutenant interviewed? Was that why he’d dressed in the caftan, the symbol of his elemental self, then come here to this retreat within a retreat, one defensive ring inside another?

  For Hitler there’d been the bunker, a place of mystery and power: that superior being, martyred by hordes of lesser men, barbarians at the gates. Only the warrior understood death.

  To kill was to live, sustained by the victim’s blood, the essence of human sacrifices. Virgins, thrown over Grecian cliffs, burned in Inca flames, their throats ceremoniously slit by priests. Blood drunk from golden goblets, to propitiate the gods.

  Just as he had propitiated the gods. One god to celebrate sensation. One god to celebrate the natural superiority of those who could kill.

  And, god of all gods, Mammon: the god of power.

  6:25 P.M. It was a simple task. Trip the concealed latch, withdraw the tape from its hiding place. One tape of two now. After Wednesday night, two tapes.

  Take the tape to the console. Insert the tape. Dim the lights with one touch, start the tape with another touch.

  Simple tasks. Elemental tasks, exercises a child could learn.

  Then sit in the carved chair. Then watch it begin: Meredith, about to die.

  It was the only refuge. Only in the tape could he liberate himself.

  But first he must control the uncontrollable: his palsied fingers, shaking so badly they could hardly trip the latch.

  6:30 P.M. The interior of Cassiday’s was dimly lit. The music was soft, the voices restrained, the laughter muted. At six-thirty on a raw February evening, at five dollars for a martini, the mating ritual of the yuppie was well advanced.

  As his eyes adjusted to the low light, a forty-eight-year-old retina, slow to open, Price saw the detective sitting in a small booth along the back of the bar. All the other booths, Price noted, were occupied, two to a booth, Cassiday’s inflexible policy after five. Had the detective—Hastings—flashed his badge? If he had, what were the probable consequences, himself connected to a policeman? A plus for his professional image? A minus?

  Had he considered the point when he’d agreed to the meeting?

  He nodded to the detective, made his way among the small, crowded tables. Hastings was rising, extending his hand. They shook hands, sat facing each other across a small table.

  “Thank you for doing this, Doctor. I appreciate it.”

  “Are you making any progress?”

  The other man hesitated briefly, obviously deciding how much he should say. Hastings was plainly a deliberate, methodical man, accustomed to think before he spoke. Without doubt, this mild, muscular detective with his calm eyes and orderly habits was well suited to the life he’d chosen. And his routine good looks would doubtless yield an active sex life, if the spirit was willing. Price glanced at the detective’s left hand. There was no wedding band. If he was married, it was odds on that a man like Hastings would wear a wedding band. Loyalty, fidelity, security would be important to him.

  “So far,” Hastings admitted, “we haven’t made much progress.”

  “Are you still proceeding on the theory that her lover may have done it?”

  The detective considered the question, then spoke carefully. “As I said, whenever a woman’s murdered, we look for a husband or a boyfriend. It’s standard practice.”

  Standard practice—ah, yes. The catechism.

  “But you had some particular reason for suspecting this man Meredith was involved with,” Price pressed.

  “I have some particular reason for wanting to talk to him, yes. But that’s not to say I have any real grounds for suspecting him.” As Hastings spoke, their waitress arrived. Price ordered a glass of Chardonnay and noted that the other man ordered a seltzer water. Was Hastings a teetotaler? A straight arrow? Was he on the wagon? Whose choice
—his, or AA’s? Time, perhaps, would tell. Part of the recovering alcoholic’s credo always involved a random willingness to talk about the problem.

  “You’re looking for grounds,” Price pressed. The message: Before they could proceed, it was necessary that they agree on terminology—his terminology.

  In reply, Hastings shrugged. “I’m always looking for grounds. That’s my job.”

  Reflecting on the answer, Price finally nodded. The reply was acceptable, a civil servant’s concession.

  The drinks arrived. As Hastings drew the check toward him, Price sipped the Chardonnay, a mediocre vintage, entirely too cloying. He spoke crisply, concisely.

  “I’ve given this matter considerable thought, Lieutenant. As I told you earlier today, there’s an ethical question for me. And there’re potential legal questions, too. If I told you that Meredith had been involved with an unsavory character, and if her family decided I was defaming her memory, therefore causing them grievous harm, they might decide to sue me. They probably wouldn’t win. But I’d have to defend myself.”

  “I doubt that her father would sue.”

  “All it takes is one shyster lawyer who’s willing to work on contingency. However—” Price sipped again at the Chardonnay, at the same time glancing at his watch. “However, the fact is, as I intimated on the phone, I’d certainly like to see her murderer caught. That goes without saying.”

  On cue, Hastings nodded. “Of course.”

  Price let a long moment pass while he ordered the sequence of his thoughts. When he spoke, it was in the measured cadence of his profession. “Meredith saw me nine times, as she may have told you. Her problem—her concern—was quite a common one. Which is to say, she seemed unable to sustain a long-term relationship with a man. Any man. Short term, she was inordinately successful with men. That’s to say, she was a beautiful woman and men chased after her, as you can imagine. But relationships always turned out to be destructive for her. Sometimes very destructive.” He paused, raised the glass, finished the wine. Hastings signaled for a second round.

  “For the past two years,” Price continued, “she was involved in a relationship like that. It was a constrictive relationship. That’s to say, the man she was involved with wanted her all to himself. Which isn’t, of course, unusual. The man was rich. Very rich. He could pay for his pleasure, so to speak. However, perhaps six months ago, she began to feel that this man was repulsive. She couldn’t stand to have him touch her. And, perhaps sensing her state of mind, the man began making unnatural demands on her. Turning up the heat, in other words.”

  “What kind of demands, Doctor?”

  “Some of them—” Price measured the other man with a calculating look of thoughtful appraisal. Then: “Some of them have to do with, ah, what I’d call abbreviated snuff. Are you familiar with the term?”

  With obvious effort, personally involved in spite of himself, Hastings said, “I certainly am. One of them—the man, usually—begins choking the woman while they’re having intercourse. It’s supposed to heighten the orgasm, just as you lose consciousness. Men do it with men, too. And women with women.”

  “I see,” Price answered dryly, “that you’ve had, ah, professional exposure to the phenomenon.”

  “In Homicide,” Hastings answered, his voice hard, “you get professionally exposed to everything.”

  The drinks arrived. As Price drank, he looked carefully at the other man. Was Hastings mocking him? Mimicking him, twisting the phrase and tossing it back? To decide, he probed. “I suppose you see everything in time. All kinds of depravity.”

  Hastings nodded. “All kinds. And there’s always something new.” He hesitated, then spoke quietly. “But when it happens to someone you know—” Silently the detective shook his head.

  Signifying that they weren’t contesting. The mimicked phrase, then, had been an aberration, nothing more, no challenge to Price’s control of the dialogue. Signifying, therefore, that he could continue.

  “Meredith hated it. And feared it, too. But, to her credit—” Price paused, to frame the thought more precisely. “To her credit, she admitted that perversion attracted her, too. Most people won’t admit that.” As he spoke, Price was aware that the other man was looking at him intently.

  And now, speaking very softly, a man who’d lost a friend, the detective said, “Meredith was strangled. That was the cause of death.”

  “Ah—” Price nodded. “I wondered. I was going to ask.” He hesitated. Then: “Was there, ah, any evidence of, ah, sexual activity?”

  Now the detective was hesitating, before he finally said, “I shouldn’t answer that, not really. But the truth is—yes, there was semen. And that’s why I called you, Doctor. This lover of hers, she was scared of him. Scared that he’d kill her, I think.”

  “And you’re looking for him.”

  “I certainly am.”

  “Without success.”

  “Without success.”

  “And you want me to help, give you a name.” As he spoke Price glanced at his watch. Already seven o’clock. Dinner awaited. “Well—” He sighed regretfully, finished his wine, declined the offer of another round. “Well, I can’t really help you, Lieutenant. I might not help you even if I could help you, for the reasons I’ve already stated. The truth is, though, that I don’t have a name. So my conscience is clear.”

  “But she talked about him to you. She must’ve said something. Is he married? Rich? Poor? Young? Old? He’s a pervert, that’s obvious, a sexual deviate. Has he ever been arrested?” Earnestly now, the detective leaned urgently across the table. “Think. Anything.”

  “The only thing I can tell you is that he’s certainly rich.”

  “How rich?”

  “Very rich, I suspect.”

  “Do you have any idea how old he is? Whether he’s thin or fat, anything like that? You might not think it’s important, Doctor, what you have to say. But sometimes we can add bits and pieces together. Like a jigsaw puzzle.” Hastings spoke earnestly; his eyes were urgent.

  Considering the point, Price pushed back his chair, ready to rise. “I’d have to listen to the tapes to see whether I could find anything. You talk about bits and pieces—that’s what I’d have to do, go back over the tapes, listen for a phrase here, a nuance there. But—” He frowned thoughtfully. “But I somehow have the feeling that physically, he’s attractive. Or, at least, not unattractive. And if I had to choose between young and old, I’d probably say old. Why, I’m not really sure. And, above all, rich. As I said.”

  “Does he work, do anything?”

  Price spread his hands. “I have no idea, Lieutenant. None at all.”

  “Those tapes—” Obviously Hastings was choosing his words. “I’d like to listen to them.”

  Price shook his head decisively. “No way, Lieutenant.”

  “I could get a court order.”

  “And I could hire a lawyer to resist. Which I most certainly would.”

  Quickly Hastings raised his hands, palms forward: a peaceable disclaimer. “Okay—just asking.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve got to go, Lieutenant.” The psychiatrist began to rise.

  Rising with him, Hastings said: “I’ve just got one more question, Doctor. It’s, ah, personal.”

  Price raised an eyebrow. “Personal?”

  “When Meredith and I talked, she—” Hastings paused carefully. “She said something about her early life. She—” Another pause. “She said she was abused when she was a little girl. And I’m wondering, did she say anything about it to you?”

  “Sexually abused, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Price studied the other man gravely, deciding. Then, perhaps regretfully, he shook his head. “Sorry, Lieutenant. I’m unable to respond to a question like that.”

  11:15 P.M. “She told me about it, told me her father molested her. But I don’t think she told Price.” In the darkened bedroom, Hastings’s voice was awed.

  “If she told him, though,
he might not’ve admitted it to you,” Ann offered. “From what you say, he doesn’t sound very forthcoming.”

  “He’s a typical tight-ass doctor. They’re all the same, when you start asking them questions. But she depended on him. I know she did. I asked her why she didn’t leave San Francisco, if she was into something she couldn’t handle. And one of the reasons she gave for staying was that Price was here.”

  “You’ll probably never know whether she told him, Frank. It doesn’t sound like you ever will.”

  A pause. In the silence, lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling. As a car passed in the street beyond the window, its headlights made patterns move across the ceiling. When he was a boy, on Thirty-ninth Avenue, he’d lain like this, watching the shadows of the night move across the ceiling of his room and down the walls. Followed by other shadows—and other shadows, an endless procession. Until, finally, he fell asleep.

  But before he fell asleep, he often heard the sound of his parents’ voices, from the floor below. Sometimes he heard them arguing: short, bitter arguments, followed by silence. In their own way they’d both been proud people, his mother and his father. Neither would ever admit defeat, or even acknowledge a wound.

  Until that afternoon in late September, when he’d come home to see the envelope on the kitchen table, leaning against the salt shaker. Unsealed, unaddressed. He’d opened it—and read that his father had left them. When he’d given the letter to his mother, she’d cried. It was the first time he’d ever seen her cry.

  Of all his early memories, all the scattered images, the plain white envelope propped against the salt shaker was always the most vivid, the most persistent.

  “I don’t understand what you’re concerned about,” Ann said finally. “Do you wish she hadn’t told you?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I just don’t know. I—Christ—I just wish we could close the case, that’s all.”