A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Brow furrowed earnestly, Canelli nodded gravely. “Right.”

  “Okay—” Friedman nodded, followed Hastings out into the hallway, now brightly lit. As the two men moved to the staircase railing, looking down, they saw four ambulance stewards mounting the staircase. Two of the stewards carried a collapsible gurney; two carried medical kits. Friedman gestured them toward the crime scene, then turned to Hastings.

  “Which room’s Corwin’s?” Friedman asked.

  “There—” Hastings pointed to a door at the head of the stairs.

  “Did he go directly from the crime scene to his room?”

  Hastings nodded. “And he hasn’t budged. MacLean’s with him, inside.”

  Obviously relieved, Friedman nodded. “That was my next question.”

  Hastings made no response.

  “So what now?” Friedman asked. “What’s the plan?”

  “I thought you had the plan. I’ve been busy.”

  “The plan,” Friedman said, “probably depends on those videotapes. It’s pretty obvious what Corwin and Charles were doing in that room. And it’s pretty obvious how Meredith Powell fitted in. It’s also pretty obvious that Corwin and Charles are at each other’s throats. So if those movies actually tell all, then we can sit back and rake in the chips. If we keep them separated, maybe tell them little white lies, we can’t lose.”

  “What about tonight?” Hastings asked. “Now. Do we take Corwin into custody?”

  Signifying that he’d been expecting the question, Friedman nodded heavily. Then, signifying that the question was troublesome, he shook his head. “I don’t know—” Thoughtfully chewing at a pendulous lower lip, Friedman ventured, “Corwin’s cooperated. He turned Charles.”

  Hastings nodded tentative agreement.

  “And if we keep the place staked out,” Friedman said, “Corwin’s not going anywhere.”

  Nodding once more, Hastings said, “I think we should play those tapes for the DA in the morning, and let him take it from there, let him decide whether to arrest Corwin. I don’t want to get in that box again—arresting a rich, well-connected suspect without a go-ahead from the DA.”

  “On that point,” Friedman answered, “I concur. But what about this—” He gestured toward the crime scene. “What if we decide to leave Corwin here tonight and he destroys evidence?”

  “We photograph the place, and fingerprint it, and take everything movable downtown. We seal the room. We keep the place staked out. If he breaks the seal, he’s culpable. If the place’s staked out, there’s no way he can remove anything from the premises.”

  “Hmmm …” Dubious, Friedman considered.

  “I don’t see us treating him like a murder suspect,” Hastings said. “Not now, at least. After all, he gave us Charles. Or tried to, anyhow. And Charles was beating up on him. Really beating up on him. So to me, Corwin looks like he could be a victim. And if it turns out he is a victim, and he’s telling us the truth, and we lock him up, we’d be in deep shit.”

  “He might be a victim,” Friedman said. “Let’s see what Charles says, when he can talk.”

  “There’s no question Corwin was playing sex games,” Hastings said. “But murder, that’s something else.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “So what about tonight?” Hastings pressed. “Do we leave him here, or jail him?”

  At the last phrase, Friedman grimaced. “Jail Edwin Corwin …” Then he smiled: a pixie-tilted troublemaker’s smile. “It’s tempting, no question.”

  Impatiently, Hastings gestured. “Come on, Pete. It’s late. Decide.”

  “Okay,” Friedman said, “I’ll go along.”

  As he spoke, the ambulance stewards came out into the hallway, wheeling the gurney. Against a green blanket, eyes half closed, Charles’s face was deathly white.

  “How is he?” Friedman asked.

  “Deep shock. Lost a lot of blood.” The steward shrugged. “Fifty-fifty, I’d say.”

  Watching the four men maneuver the gurney down the stairs, Friedman spoke reflectively. “Fifty-fifty. In this business, that’s about it. Fifty-fifty.”

  1:25 A.M. They’d crisscrossed the door with yellow “Crime Scene” tapes and posted an official seal, signed by Friedman. Solemnly, they’d warned him not to break the seal. Then, following a detective who carried two plastic bags, one containing the video cassettes, the other containing his revolver, the two lieutenants had bade him a grim good night, warned him not to leave the premises, descended the staircase. They would return at mid-morning, they’d said—with the district attorney.

  Ever since the afternoon, even with more cocaine—an instant’s eternity of cocaine—he’d been conscious that something never born was about to die. Hour by hour—minute by minute now—the images compounded, came clearer: faces of strangers. Faces of lawyers, faces of judges. And his mother’s face, always in shadow.

  And his father’s face, always a blank.

  Sights and sounds—faces and forgetfulness. Finally fading, gone so long.

  Ending always with the two faces, each so pale: flesh transmuted into marble, spinning disembodied through the void.

  A measurable time ago—a minute, or an hour—he’d tried to break the yellow tape that sealed the door. But the tape had not yielded—or he had not prevailed, strength drained away. Therefore, holding fast to the railing of the staircase, he’d descended to the second floor, and then to the first floor, then to the kitchen and the knives he knew were there. He’d selected a knife, tested its edge, made his judgment. Allowing him, therefore, to begin his passage up the stairs, to the door of the chamber.

  But, instead, he’d taken the wrong turn, found himself in the utility rooms, headed for the garage.

  He’d known, of course, how it had happened. Thinking of Meredith Powell, he’d allowed her to guide his footfalls. Even though he’d walked quietly, slightly, lightly, she’d been perceptive. She’d preempted him, usurped the mind-body connection, propelled him into the dark, dim reaches of the utility rooms, bound for the garage, knife in hand. But, recovering, he’d retraced his steps, asserted an essential mind-body integrity.

  Allowing him, therefore, to free himself from her insidious manipulation as he climbed the stairs to the third floor.

  Allowing him to carefully, delicately, insert the knife between the door and the frame—and begin to cut the yellow tape.

  Slightly, lightly …

  Yes: slightly, lightly.

  As, yes, the door was swinging inward.

  Slightly, lightly.

  Allowing him to enter the chamber.

  Allowing him to close the door, lock the door, bolt the door.

  Allowing him to avoid the blood—Charles’s blood.

  Allowing him, therefore, to reach the console, switch on the light, switch on the video camera. Yes, the camera was running. And, yes, the tape magazine was full. They’d operated the camera, determined that the film was blank. Then they’d decided to leave both the camera and the film, a pivotal decision.

  Allowing him, therefore, to go to the closet and select the knife he knew was waiting: a French dueling dagger, a collector’s item, once having belonged to Louis the Fourteenth, an authenticated antique.

  He laid aside the kitchen knife, a banality. Now, dagger in hand, he was moving onto the platform.

  Where—yes—she waited.

  Ready to serve him as he mounted the platform, let the silken robe slip away as he knelt, he on one side of the stone statuary, she kneeling on the far side, her smooth, pale marble flesh a complement to the texture of the rough, porous stone.

  But if she faced the camera, then he was turned away. Would she move, as he moved? Yes, the angles were changing. So that now, dagger drawing closer, face upturned to the camera, the creation could commence, his ultimate statement.

  As, yes, the pale blade, a liquid gleam of steel, came close to the flesh, his hand and forearm resting palm upturned on the stone.

  The touch of the steel was cold, b
ut the momentary sting that followed was its antidote, the sensation he’d always known would come.

  He placed the knife on the floor beside the statue, to let the camera study the pattern of blood on polished steel. The dark, rich flow of the blood against the stone, the ultimate conception finally consummated, was wonderfully warm. Allowing him to close his eyes and rest his head against the rough stone.

  His masterpiece.

  WEDNESDAY FEBRUARY 21

  11:30 A.M. AS THE limousine pulled away from the curb and took up its position behind the hearse, Hastings was aware that, beside him, John Powell was sobbing.

  When he’d dressed for Meredith’s funeral, he’d resolved not to pander to whatever emotions Powell might choose to display. During the short, canned service at the funeral home, they hadn’t spoken. When their shoulders had touched as they sat side by side in the first pew, Hastings had moved sharply away. As the minister droned on, random fragments of memory had returned: Meredith smiling at him in the hallway of 450 Sutter Street … Meredith, the focus of so many avid male eyes, preceding him to a table at the restaurant … Meredith, eight years old, following him and Kevin …

  … Meredith, with the dirt and the dead leaves tangled in her tawny blond hair.

  And, an image so searing that it distorted itself, Meredith in bed, a child, crushed beneath the bulk of a monstrous weight: her father, thrusting his obscene flesh into her. The image was—

  “—going to live?” Powell was asking, his voice thick.

  Aware of the effort it cost, Hastings turned to him. “What?”

  “Charles, that crazy artist, is he going to live?”

  “Yes, he’ll live.”

  “And the one that committed suicide—Edwin Corwin, the rich one—did he leave a note, or anything?”

  Briefly Hastings considered the question. Then, returning his gaze to the front, seeing only the hearse in the windshield of the limousine, he said cryptically: “No, there wasn’t any note. There was a videotape, but no note.”

  They rode for a time in silence. Then, blowing his nose and thrusting the wet handkerchief into the pocket of the blue suit they’d rented with a SFPD payment voucher, Powell said, “There was a lot of people there, wasn’t there, Frank?” A pause. Then, when it was plain that Hastings chose not to reply, Powell ventured: “She must’ve had lots of friends, all those people. Hundreds of friends, it looked like. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Deliberately allowing a long moment of silence to pass before he finally turned again to face the other man, both of them confined in the elegant interior of the funeral home’s limousine, Hastings said, “Those were curiosity seekers, that’s all they were. People read about things in the papers, see things on TV, they want to see for themselves. Then—” A brief, merciless silence. “Then they crawl back under their rocks.”

  12:35 P.M. Walking beside Hastings from the graveside toward the limousine, Powell sighed heavily. “Well, Frank, I see what you mean, all right. There sure wasn’t many who really cared about her, it looked like. That kid from the apartment building, that boy, and those two artists you said they were, they were all that had manners enough to—you know—pay their respects.” As he spoke, Powell sighed again, looked up into the leaden sky. “God, it’s going to rain again, sure as shit.”

  They approached the limousine and the driver in his dark suit moved to the rear of the Cadillac to open the door. As Powell stooped, about to enter the limousine, Hastings spoke. “Just a minute, Mr. Powell. Just hold it, a minute.”

  Powell straightened, turned to face Hastings, who gestured for the driver to get back inside the limousine, out of earshot.

  “Frank. Please.” Powell’s slack mouth twisted in an obscenity of a fatuous smile. “Please. It’s Johnny, remember? Everyone calls me Johnny.”

  Nodding silently, Hastings waited for the driver to get inside the car, door closed, window rolled up. As he waited, he took an envelope from his pocket, held the envelope out to the other man. As Powell took the envelope, frowning, Hastings spoke very softly. “That’s your return ticket—Johnny.” Accenting the last word, he allowed himself the luxury of letting the bitterness come through—and the fury, and the frustration. “This driver will take you to your hotel, and then you’re on your own. I don’t care what you do after that—Johnny. Maybe you can cash in your ticket, and buy some booze with it—Johnny.”

  “Frank—” Powell spoke piteously, guilelessly. “Frank, you—”

  “But before you go—Johnny—there’s something I want to tell you. There’s something I want to tell you, and I don’t want you ever to forget it—Johnny. Do you understand?”

  “Frank, I—” Now uncertainty tugged at the fleshy, florid ruin of the other man’s face. And, following the random twitching of uncertainty, fear began to cloud the watery eyes. “Frank, I—”

  “I want you to know—Johnny—that I know your dirty little secret. Meredith told me—Johnny. She didn’t really want to tell me, because she was so ashamed. But it hurt too much, I guess, for her to keep it to herself anymore. She was thirty-six years old, and I think maybe she only told me and her doctor, her psychiatrist, what you did to her. That’s because she didn’t have any friends, not really. Ruined people, you see—people who can’t put any value on themselves—they don’t have friends. They—”

  “Frank, I—I honest to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—”

  “I’m talking about child abuse—Johnny. I’m talking about incest. And I’m telling you—Johnny—that if you hadn’t raped Meredith, all those years ago, she’d be alive right now. She’d be alive, and she’d be smiling—Johnny. She’d have a husband, and children, and she’d be smiling.”

  He turned away and began walking across the cemetery—away from the limousine, away from the open grave.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Lt. Hastings Mysteries

  Monday, September 10

  9:45 PM

  HANCHETT TURNED TO HIS right side, glanced at the bedside clock. By ten-thirty he should be home. But first he must kiss her, stroke her, partially arouse her. Promises made, promises to keep. Then he could leave her bed. Ten minutes to shower and dress. Bringing him to ten o’clock. Another ten minutes, fifteen, perhaps, to kiss her again, stroke her again, keep the flame burning low. Then the drive home: fifteen minutes, portal-to-portal, her place to his.

  If Barbara didn’t awaken, he could be asleep by eleven. Seven hours to restore the body, let the heart rest, let the organs relax. Then a new day would begin. Tomorrow, Tuesday, September eleventh. The struggle would begin anew: life, struggling against the inevitability of death, his stock-in-trade.

  The struggle that made men rich.

  As the hours of September eleventh passed, the sexual pulse, already waxing, would begin to throb: that beat, growing stronger—and stronger. Until he returned here, to her bed. Lying beside her. Beginning. Once more, beginning. He and Carla. Burning bright.

  He knew that now, just now, she would speak. It was predictable. After three months together, it was predictable.

  It was also predictable that when she spoke it would be preemptive—the predictable, preempting the predictable:

  “I know,” she said. “You’re running late.”

  “Ah …”He turned toward her, smiled. “You noticed.”

  “I like a man who takes his domestic responsibilities seriously.”

  “Is that a fact?” He touched her stomach, just above the navel. Her stomach was wonderfully taut. The tennis, the aerobics, the daily sessions on the stationary bike—all of it compounding to gratify his touch, determination defeating flab. Aware that he was quickening, he moved his hand lower. God, the wonder of her body. It was poetry. Pure, sweet poetry.

  “I’d appreciate it,” she said, “if you wouldn’t do that. Not unless you intend to put your organ where your hand is.”

  He chuckled, withdrew his hand. It wasn’t only her body. It was her élan—her don’t-give-a-damn-flair.
Carla was brash. And smart. And essentially ruthless. His kind of woman.

  He chuckled again, kissed her, pushed away, slid out of bed. “I do have responsibilities, you know. While you’re working on your forehand tomorrow, I’ll be at the office.”

  “I’d rather work on my foreplay. And your foreplay, come to think about it. We mustn’t forget your foreplay. Must we?”

  10:07 PM

  It was as if she were awakening from a dream to discover the dream incarnate: this same quiet street, these trees, the street-lamp high overhead. Yes, there was his car, a tan Jaguar. To make sure, there was the personalized license plate: BRICE H.

  “Check the license plate,” she’d rehearsed, “just to make sure. Absolutely sure.”

  And, meek as a little girl, herself so long ago, she’d nodded. Yes, she would check the license plate.

  Soon, she knew, he would come to her. It was promised, that he would come to her. The door of the small apartment building across the street would open, and he would begin walking toward his car. He would most certainly pass within a few feet of where she now stood, close beside a large, tall tree. The branches of the tree arched high overhead: dark, mysterious shapes against the night-blue sky. Sometimes dark shapes in the night frightened her. Witches’ wings, overspreading.

  Once when she was small—much smaller, even, than she felt now—a bat had flown above her, so close she could hear the dry graveyard rustle of wings. She’d been alone that night. All alone.

  But she wasn’t afraid. Even though she was alone, she was not afraid.

  When they’d come to the door that night—when she’d heard the sound of footsteps outside the door, that night—she’d known she would never again be afraid.

  Because after death, there was nothing more to fear.

  Even the cold steel touch of the pistol did not frighten her. Always, for as long as she could remember, guns had terrified her. Even the sight of a gun had made her curl up inside, tight as a sow bug, and just as tiny.