Victims

by Collin Wilcox

  “Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “I TELL YOU, IT was an accident. It—it was Quade’s fault. All his fault. Ask Mr. Guest. Have you called Mr. Guest? Have you talked to Mr. Guest—asked him about me?”

  “We’re talking to you, Durkin,” Friedman said. “When we finish with you, we’ll talk to Mr. Guest. And everyone else connected with the case, too. But now it’s your turn. All yours.”

  “It’s because of my record,” Durkin muttered. “If I didn’t have any record, I wouldn’t even be here.”

  “You’re here because you tried to run, Durkin,” I said. “You tried to run, and you got caught. You got caught with a lethal weapon in your hand, threatening to commit murder.”

  “I’ve got a right to a lawyer.”

  “That’s right,” Friedman said, “you have. But you haven’t called anyone—a lawyer, or anyone else.”

  “I’m waiting for Marie to call. I’ve got to wait for her.”

  “It’s been three hours since you were arrested,” I said. “She’s known for three hours that you’re here. I told her myself, when I took John home. And she hasn’t called.”

  “You wouldn’t tell me if she called.” He spoke sullenly, sulkily. Sitting slumped at the interrogation room’s small steel table, both elbows propped on the table, Durkin was a defeated, deflated incarnation of the arrogant bully with the angry eyes and the bulging muscles that I’d first seen only three days before. He seemed, literally, to have lost substance. When our backup arrived, and I pulled him to his feet on the steps of Telegraph Hill, his arms and his torso had gone slack, unresisting. It was fear that had stolen his strength, left him suddenly so helpless. I’d felt that same kind of debilitation before, many times. Durkin knew he was going back inside prison walls. He knew he could go all the way—to death row. And the sudden, overpowering realization had left him without strength or hope, without even the will to resist. He was a lost soul. And he knew it.

  “We’d tell you if Marie called,” I said. “You know we’d tell you.”

  He shook his head, but didn’t reply.

  “Listen, Durkin—” I leaned across the interrogation table. “Why don’t you tell us about it, make it easy on yourself? You know how it goes: You help us, we’ll help you. Give us something we can give the D.A., so he’ll look good. And you’ll get a deal. It’s guaranteed, you’ll get a deal. But this way, not talking, you’re just making it hard on yourself.”

  “You’re forcing us to guess,” Friedman said. “And that’s always bad. We guess, we think the worst, not the best. It’s only human nature.”

  “You said it was Quade’s fault,” I said. “What’d you mean, Durkin?”

  “It was his fault. All his fault.”

  “He fired first. Is that it?”

  The suspect made no reply, but only shook his head, slowly and hopelessly.

  “You didn’t go to the Guest house with the idea of killing anyone,” Friedman said. He spoke softly, beguilingly, subtly inviting the suspect’s confidence. “Did you?”

  “No. I already told you that.”

  “Then why’d you go?”

  Durkin shook his head again. Doggedly. Desperately.

  I sat silently for a moment, studying him. Why did he refuse to talk? He protested his innocence, but would go no farther, would say no more. Why? He didn’t want a lawyer. He just wanted to talk to Marie Kramer or Alexander Guest. Why? Was he protecting one of them?

  Both of them?

  I didn’t know, couldn’t guess. I could only blunder blindly ahead, hoping eventually to find the right combination of fact and fiction that would start him talking.

  “You followed John,” I said. “That’s it, isn’t it? You were protecting John. So you followed him to Alexander Guest’s house.” I glanced at Friedman, who took up the slender thread.

  “That was your job, to protect John. But you didn’t know Quade was doing the same job—at the same time, at the same place.”

  “It was dark,” I said, remembering John’s testimony. “It was dark inside the house. And Quade had a gun. You thought he was Kramer, stealing John. You fired. And then Quade—”

  “No.” Suddenly his head snapped up, his eyes came feverishly alive. “No. He shot first. Quade. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It was dark, like you said. And I didn’t know my way around, in there. It was like a—a fun house, or something, it was so dark in that hallway. But finally I found John’s room. There was enough light coming through the window so I could see the toys. So I went inside, and saw he wasn’t there. And right away I knew what happened. They went out by another door, the two of them. So then I was going out again, into the hallway, when I saw something—heard something, I don’t know which. I was going to get out, go back the way I came. But then there came this shot, this goddam shot, out of nowhere. I—I shot back, at the flash, I guess. I shot, and I heard him groan. Then he shot again. And then I heard him fall. I—I remember standing there. I couldn’t move. It was like my—my feet were stuck to the floor. It was only a second, but it seemed like forever, standing there. And then he—God—he started moaning, and asking for help. I—” He broke off. Staring down at the table, mouth twitching, trembling, he drew a shaking hand across his forehead and momentarily down over his haunted eyes, as if to block out the memory of murder. Finally the hand fell listlessly away.

  “But I—I couldn’t. I know I should’ve helped him, but I couldn’t. So I—I split.”

  “You went out through the garage,” I said. “You went out the way you came in—the same way Kramer went in.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Right.”

  “The gun,” Friedman said. “Your gun. It was the Kramers’ gun. Marie Kramer’s gun. Right?”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “You took the gun with you,” I said. Then, mindful of the microphone concealed in the room’s ceiling fixture, I said, “When you left Guest’s house, you took the gun with you—the .38 Smith and Wesson revolver.”

  He shook his head in a slow, exhausted arc. “No. I left it there. In the hallway.”

  Friedman and I exchanged a quick, significant glance.

  “You didn’t take the gun outside the house?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “I’m sure. I left it on the floor. I remember because I bent down, and put it on the floor, instead of dropping it. I—” His mouth twitched in a grotesque shadow of a smile. “I didn’t want it to go off, I guess.”

  “But you wiped the gun,” I pressed. “You wiped off your fingerprints, before you put the gun on the floor.”

  He shook his head. “No. I thought about it, afterwards. I knew I should’ve done it. But it was too late, then. And, sure as hell, I wasn’t going back.”

  Friedman and I exchanged another glance. Frowning thoughtfully, Friedman said, “You thought the figure in the hallway was Kramer. Is that right?”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “And he—Quade, actually—fired first.”

  “Right.”

  “Then you fired.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then he fired again.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Three shots, altogether.”

  “Right. Three shots.”

  “You’re positive about all this,” I said. “He fired, and you fired, and then he fired again.”

  “Right.”

  I nodded. “Then you put the gun on the floor, and you went out through the garage, the way you came in—the way Kramer came in.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you thought it was Kramer that you’d hit.” Friedman spoke softly. “It was dark and you couldn’t recognize whoever it was on the floor. But you thought it was Kramer.”

  Durkin nodded. “I didn’t even know who Quade was until I read it in the papers the next day.”

  “You knew that Kramer was arrested, though.”

  “Sure. But that’s all I knew.”

  Both Friedman and I sat silent
ly for a moment, studying the suspect. Was this the time to question Durkin on the inconsistencies in his answers? Or should we get his whole story first? I gestured to Friedman, inviting him to take a turn.

  “We know what happened after you got to the Guest house,” Friedman said. “Why’d you go there in the first place?”

  Durkin frowned, looking at Friedman. “What’d you mean?”

  “Did you know Kramer was there, intending to take John?”

  Durkin nodded; he understood the question. “When he hired me, Mr. Guest told me why he was doing it, that he expected Kramer to make a try for the kid. He showed me pictures of Kramer. Lots of pictures, even a videotape. And then he told me what he expected me to do. He took a long time, told me about the divorce agreement, and everything. He told me, several times, that Kramer couldn’t see John without his mother gives her permission. So if Kramer comes to town and sees John without checking with Marie—Mrs. Kramer—then he’s in contempt of court. He’s breaking the law.”

  Friedman nodded. “That’s probably right.”

  “And Mr. Guest also said that if Kramer tried to take John out of the state, that was even worse. But he said that the police couldn’t stop him without an order from a judge. And that’d be too late. He’d already be long gone, Mr. Guest said, by the time the judge got around to putting out a bench warrant, or whatever they call it.”

  Friedman frowned again. “He was right. No question.”

  Durkin hesitated, looking at Friedman with obvious calculation, deciding what to say next—deciding how much to tell, and how much to hold back. Finally, tentatively, Durkin said, “Mr. Guest said—other things, too.”

  Even though it was obvious that Durkin might be about to reveal something important, Friedman spoke casually as he asked, “What other things?”

  “He said that if Kramer should come inside the house—Mrs. Kramer’s house—and try to take John away, then he’d be just like a criminal. A housebreaker. And he said that if that should ever happen—” Durkin licked nervously at his lips, then said, “If that should ever happen, and I should—” He swallowed. “He said, that if I should shoot him, then the law would be on my side. And, what’s more—” Once again, his uneasy eyes sought ours. “What’s more, he said that he’d be grateful, if that happened. It was—you know—like he was offering a reward.”

  “You’d use Mrs. Kramer’s gun,” Friedman said. “If Kramer ever tried to break in, you’d use Marie Kramer’s gun.”

  “Right.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is that really true? Is it really the law, that you can shoot someone who breaks into your house?”

  “That’s the law,” Friedman answered. “It’s meant to favor the owner of the house, of course. But, if you’re employed to guard the house and an intruder enters, then you can shoot him, no question.”

  “Yeah—” Slowly, he nodded. “That’s what he said. Mr. Guest, I mean.”

  “Did you keep the gun in your room?” Friedman asked.

  “No. It was always in her room. Marie’s.”

  “So you went to her room and got the gun, Friday night.”

  “I got it in the afternoon, when I saw Kramer. He was parked down the hill. I saw him there, when I drove John home from school. I recognized him from all the pictures I saw of him.”

  “Did John see him?”

  “No. But he saw John. I saw him looking at John—looking hard. So, when we got inside the house, I got the gun.”

  “Was Mrs. Kramer home?” I asked.

  “No. She went out for lunch—and stayed out.” He looked at me aside, plainly trying to decide how much to tell about Marie Kramer’s habits. Finally he said, “That’s what she usually does, on Fridays. She leaves for lunch—and doesn’t come back, usually. At least, not until late.”

  “And Mr. Guest comes for John Friday afternoons.”

  He nodded.

  “When Guest showed up,” Friedman said, “was Kramer still parked outside?”

  “I didn’t see him. But I figured he was.”

  Remembering the geography of Telegraph Hill, I said, “From inside the house, you couldn’t see him. You figured he was parked around a curve in the road, watching. Is that it?”

  Durkin nodded. “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “You didn’t tell Guest that you’d seen Kramer.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I guess I figured—you know—that I’d see what happened.”

  Friedman frowned. “What’d you mean by that?”

  “Well—” Defensively, Durkin shrugged. “You know—I was remembering what Mr. Guest said, about how grateful he’d be, and everything, if I could help him out. So, what the hell—” He shrugged again.

  “You figured Mr. Guest would be grateful. If you helped out, you thought he’d reward you. So you thought you’d let matters develop to the point where you could help.”

  “Yeah. Well—” Plaintively, he spread his hands. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “So when Guest left with John, about 4:30 Friday afternoon,” I said, “you waited for Kramer to follow them. Then you followed Kramer. Is that right?”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “And you took the gun,” Friedman said. “You figured that, if Kramer tried to take the boy, you’d stop him.”

  Wearily—hopelessly—Durkin sighed, dropping his eyes. Once more, fear had deflated him. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “If you got the chance, you’d kill him.”

  “No.” Sharply, he shook his head. “No, that’s not the way it was. I—I just—”

  “Go ahead with the story. Tell us what happened. Exactly what happened.”

  “Well, it’s like you said. I took the car—the Mercedes—and followed Kramer. I’m surprised he didn’t see me, but he didn’t. I followed him until about eight o’clock, when Guest and John finally went home.”

  “Were you supposed to drive Mrs. Kramer’s car? Was it all right with her?”

  “Sure. I drive it all the time. Not for pleasure, or anything. But she doesn’t drive, see. She’d had her license lifted.”

  “So you waited until Kramer went inside the Guest house,” I said, visualizing the scene as I spoke. “You waited until one o’clock, when he went down the driveway, and entered the garage. You gave him a minute, then you followed him. You had the gun. You went in through the garage, and then into the house, from the garage—the same way Kramer went in. Am I right so far?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Just right.”

  “But you’d never been inside the house,” Friedman said. “So you were confused about the layout. You didn’t know there was another way out—the way Kramer and John took. So when you saw Quade, you thought he was Kramer. So you shot him. You remembered what Guest said, about being grateful if you shot Kramer. And it’d be legal, too—you thought. Because Kramer would be housebreaking, you thought the law would protect you. So you shot him. You didn’t just shoot him once, either. You shot him twice, just to make sure. But then you saw that you’d made a mistake. It was a stranger lying there. A perfect stranger. So you panicked. You took your gun, and you ran. Then you realized that you had to ditch the gun. So you—”

  “No.” Suddenly he threw himself back from the table, threw his arms out wide, as if he were on stage, extravagantly acting out his plea for innocence. His eyes were wild, his lips were drawn back from his teeth. His handsome beach-bum’s face had suddenly become a death’s head of terror. “No. You’re—Christ—you’re lying. You—you’re like all of them, all the rest of them. I—I made a mistake. One mistake, years ago. And so all my life, my whole life, I’ve got to—” His words choked him. His arms fell slack at his sides. His head fell forward, chin on chest, as suddenly as if his neck had snapped.

  I looked at Friedman, who moved his head toward the door. It was time to take a break—to compare notes.

  NINETEEN

  FRIEDMAN HANDED THE MENU to the waitress, nodded his thanks and
said to me; “Let’s suppose, just for argument’s sake, that Durkin’s telling the truth.”

  “Why would you assume that he’s telling the truth?” The question had been sharper than I’d intended. I knew why. The time was almost midnight, and Friedman was still expansively theorizing, indifferent to the clock. Ann was probably already in bed—without me. Once again, without me. Twice during the past four nights, without me.

  “Wait—” Friedman raised a pudgy, pontifical hand. “Hear me out. Make your mind a blank. Okay?”

  Resigned, I shrugged.

  “The reason I’m wondering whether he’s telling the truth,” Friedman said, “is that his story and Kramer’s story and John’s story all match. Now, you may say that they’re all lying. That’s possible, I guess. Kramer and his son could be lying, which would account for the fact that their stories match. But how do we account for Durkin’s story matching Kramer’s? There’s no way Kramer and Durkin could’ve gotten together, to fix up a story. None at all. So it seems to me that we’ve got to at least try and figure out why—how—their stories match. And the most obvious explanation—the easiest one—is that they’re telling the truth. All three of them.”

  “Except that—”

  “Wait—” Once more, he raised his hand. “I know what you’re going to say. Their stories might agree, but they don’t fit the facts, the physical evidence. Namely, none of their stories, separately or added together, account for either the number of shots that were actually fired or the location of the murder weapon in the shrubbery in front of Guest’s house, or the fact that the gun was wiped clean. That’s what you were going to say. Am I right?”

  “You’re right. Absolutely.”

  “Okay—” Obviously enjoying himself now, he settled more comfortably in his chair across the table. I recognized the smug, self-satisfied look in his eyes, and the comfortably complacent note in his voice. He’d developed a new theory. This was Friedman’s favorite sport: trying out a new theory on me. “If we assume,” he said, “that the three stories we’ve gotten are true, and if we also assume that Guest’s testimony is true, then there’s only one set of circumstances that’d make everything add up.” He paused one last long, playfully portentous moment before he pronounced: “Someone else got into the house after both Kramer and Durkin left. He—or she—picked up the gun Durkin had dropped. He fired the gun into Quade’s neck, killing him. Then he—or she—wiped the gun, ditched it in the shrubbery, and disappeared.”