by Nina Revoyr
“Uh, Mr. Rosenberg, sir,” said Willy. “Look, sir. Look at the floor.”
Everyone stared, Mills twisting around to see the marks his shoes had left. Then he took a white handkerchief out of his pocket, lifted his foot, and wiped the bottom. It came away dark red. He rushed back over to Tyler, and two of the other policemen bent down and rolled the body over.
There was a melon-sized crater in the lower part of Tyler’s back. It looked like the inside of a volcano—dark, red, churning. On the robe and on the rug were bits of bone, intestines, coagulated pockets of blood. Elizabeth screamed when she saw this and fell into my arms. I, already numb from the shock of his death, could not assimilate this new information. And now we saw an even darker stain on the rug, spreading out to the left of the body and toward the bed. The policemen turned the body on its back again, and one of them opened the robe. There, just below the navel, was the entrance wound, and then the sand-colored curls, the shriveled penis. The men examined the wound, and then lifted both sides of the robe.
“It went clean through,” said one of the kneeling cops. “Couldn’t see the hole from outside.”
Captain Mills shook his head and whistled, and even Rosenberg seemed at a loss for words. “Well, this changes things a bit,” he said.
Elizabeth leaned heavily into me and I thought she would faint, but instead she just started to cry again, gulping for air as if she were drowning. “Somebody shot him?” she asked.
“Looks that way,” said Captain Mills.
She looked at Rosenberg. “Oh, David, who could have done such a thing?”
“Good question,” said Rosenberg. He seemed truly shaken.
“Did he have any enemies?” asked Captain Mills, as the officers stood up and began to examine the room once again. “Any unpaid debts, angry lovers or husbands, a dispute over one of his pictures?”
Rosenberg shook his head. “Not that I know of. People liked him. And women couldn’t get enough of him. It was the accent, I think, and his high-class looks. All these British bastards have it over us that way.”
“All the more reason to look at women and husbands. Was there anything else? Disputes with employees? Some actor or actress he didn’t cast?”
Rosenberg shrugged. “You can never keep actors happy, but that’s nothing new …”
“Miss Banks,” the policeman asked, “do you have any idea who might have done this?”
She shook her head, still clutching my arm. “No, I can’t imagine who would have done something like this. I can’t imagine who’d want to hurt Ashley.”
Captain Mills had taken out a small notebook and was scratching in it with a pencil. “Who has access to the house?” he asked of no one in particular.
Rosenberg thought for a minute. “Well, he asked Gerard Normandy to keep an extra set of keys. Other than that,” he said, looking at Willy, “the only person I know of is him.”
All four of the policemen turned toward Willy now, who instinctively stepped back. “I found him this way,” he said. “I came round about 5, like I always do, and he was laid out just like that.”
“Mr… .”
“Parris,” David said. “Willy Parris.”
“Mr. Parris, how long have you been in Mr. Tyler’s employ?”
“Almost four years now. Four years this May.”
“Were you unhappy with Mr. Tyler in any way, Mr. Parris? Maybe he didn’t give you time off when you wanted it, didn’t give you a raise?”
“No, I never had no problem with Mr. Tyler. No problem at all. Best boss I ever had. I’d do anything for him.”
“You leave him alone!” Elizabeth shouted. “You leave Willy alone! Willy wouldn’t hurt an insect, let alone Ashley, and it’s shameful what you’re trying to imply!”
And slowly, all of the policemen’s eyes came to rest on Elizabeth. I could feel the shift, the new curiosity.
“Miss Banks,” Captain Mills began, “you were close to Mr. Tyler, correct?”
“Yes, very close,” she replied, and she didn’t seem to notice the way they circled her, the scent they picked up in the air.
“Would you say that your friendship was … intimate?”
“That’s none of your business!” she said, pulling her sweater around her.
“Well, would you say that you had a strong affection for Mr. Tyler?”
She touched her mouth, and her hand was shaking. “Yes. A very strong affection.”
“And was his affection for you equally strong?”
She shook her head—not as if she were answering no, but as if she were trying to deny the presence of their questions. “Oh God, don’t make me talk about Ashley when he’s dead and somebody’s killed him!”
Captain Mills stepped forward. “Miss Banks,” he said slowly, “how did you know to come over this morning?”
“Why, Mr. Stewart …” But when she peered at Rosenberg, he looked away. “Tom Stewart from Benjamin Dreyfus’ office called me.”
Captain Mills looked at Rosenberg. “Is this true?”
Rosenberg shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know how she knew to come. She was here before I was, in fact.” Elizabeth stared at him in disbelief. “You bastard! You know he called me. He called everyone this morning. How the hell do you think these thugs knew where to come?” She gestured toward the studio men.
I held her and kept her from falling over, and now the captain turned to me. “And what might you be doing here?”
“I came with Miss Banks,” I replied.
“Were you with her when she received this supposed phone call?”
“No, I was at home, and she called me.”
“So you weren’t with her this morning.”
“No,” I said, and the glance the captain now exchanged with his deputy made me think I might have said something wrong.
“Well, at least we know where to start, gentlemen,” said Captain Mills. “Let’s take all three of them down to the station. We should have this thing solved by evening.” Before I could protest, the police grabbed us from behind and led us down the stairs. We stepped out into the courtyard. By now a small crowd had gathered, and the police had cleared a path to the street. The onlookers stood behind the policemen’s outstretched arms, and as we passed, they pointed and whispered. The three of us were loaded into separate cars, and when we reached police headquarters, we were ushered quickly inside. I caught glimpses of Elizabeth and Willy before we were led off to separate rooms. Elizabeth seemed disoriented, dazed, as if she were not a part of what was happening around her. She was enveloped in grief, and I got the sense that, now that her protector was dead, she didn’t much care what happened to her. But Willy’s face was drawn, eyes wide open and alert, and I knew that he was afraid.
The policeman who had escorted me now led me down a dim hallway and through an unmarked door. The room he took me to was dark and windowless, with only a small wooden table and three chairs. The walls were gray and plain, and one of the overhead bulbs had burned out. The table was scratched up, the chairs worn and uneven, and there were gashes in the wall encased with dark, dried stains. My shock at the sight of Tyler had now given way to the urgency of self-preservation. I circled the table, not knowing what to do with myself, and felt the first stirrings of panic. I wanted to get out of that room as quickly as I could. Just being there made me feel like a criminal.
In a few moments, the door opened and Captain Mills came inside, accompanied by two men in jackets and ties. Mills pointed to one of the chairs, and I sat down.
“Nakayama,” he said, “this is Detective Jones and Detective Hopkins. They’d like to ask you some questions.”
Mills left and shut the door behind him, and the two men turned to face me. The older detective, Jones, was tall and slightly stooped. His shoulders were drawn up and his hands lifted and poised—ready, it seemed, to fight at a moment’s notice. The other man, Hopkins, was young in the face but seemed older than his years. He looked as stoic as a farmer, and just as uncomfo
rtable in a suit and tie. Hopkins took a seat across the table. Despite his casual, untidy appearance, his movements were sharp and quick, his eyes alert.
“Jun Nakayama, correct?” the older man asked.
I cleared my throat. “That’s correct.”
He sat on the table in front of me and curled his hands over the edge. “I understand you were at Ashley Tyler’s house this morning.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Now, what did you happen to be doing there?”
I looked up at his face, his watery blue eyes; a slight, unpleasant smile curled his lips. “Elizabeth Banks called me this morning and told me that Mr. Tyler was dead. She was very upset and wanted me to accompany her to the house.”
“Now why was she so upset?”
“She’d just heard that her friend and director was dead.”
“Were you upset?”
“Of course. He was my friend and director as well.”
Jones took his hands off the table and folded them together in his lap. “Well, he was your director, that much is true. But I’m assuming he was a different kind of friend.”
I inhaled quickly—I couldn’t help it—and knew that Jones was pleased by my reaction because he leaned in a bit closer. Hopkins leaned over too, and nodded reassuringly. “It’s okay, Mr. Nakayama. Just answer the questions. The truth is going to come out anyway.”
Detective Jones glanced over his shoulder, and there was a hint of irritation in his face. He pulled himself back from this distraction. “So many friends in this sticky business. So many little intrigues. Now why did Miss Banks call you?”
“I suppose she trusts me. We have known each other for many years.”
“Yes. I hear she’s a friend of yours as well.”
Hopkins leaned back in his chair now and crossed his arms. “Where were you when she called you?”
“At home.”
“Had you been there all night?”
“Yes. I stayed in yesterday evening.”
“Are you sure you weren’t with Miss Banks?”
I looked at the wall beyond them. “No, I wasn’t. In fact, she was with—” I stopped myself, not wanting to implicate her.
Jones stood now, smelling blood. “Yes, we know. She was with Tyler. And from there she came to you?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you didn’t go over there together and shoot him?”
“No. Of course not. Why would we do that?”
“Maybe you knew she’d gone to see him and waited until she left, then went over there and shot him yourself.”
“No!”
“It bothered you that she saw him, didn’t it, Jun?”
I paused before responding. Jones had stepped closer and was hovering over me; Hopkins leaned forward again and put his elbows on the table. “Miss Banks can spend time with whomever she pleases.”
“But it bothers you just the same.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“You hate to think of it, don’t you?” Jones continued. “That fancy British asshole with the nice clothes and pretty accent, fucking the woman you love.”
“I don’t think about such things.”
“Sure you do, you little rat.” Jones’ body was taut, but his voice was growing softer and softer. “You have to work with the bastard, and probably all you can think about is him in the sack with your lady. It’s like torture, isn’t it? Seeing him every day, imagining them, and knowing all the time that no matter what you do, you’ll never be able to compete, because he’s a British gentleman and you’re a fucking greasy little Jap.”
My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from the effect of Jones’ words. “I admired Ashley Tyler,” I said, looking down at the table. “I had no ill feeling toward him.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Jones, his raised voice like a cracking whip. He leaned over abruptly, his face inches from my own. Hopkins stood too, as if preparing to hold him back. “You’re just a damned liar, like the rest of them,” Jones hissed. “Too fucking big for your britches. Shit. If you want my opinion, the pictures started to stink as soon as they let foreigners in them. You should have stayed where you were and not shown your ugly face in California. You went over there and shot him, didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You knew Elizabeth had been there, and you went over there and found him in his robe, probably because he’d just fucked your girlfriend. Maybe it was something in his eyes, maybe you even smelled it on him, and you couldn’t stand it, and you just had to go and kill him.”
All the anger and fear that had been building in me now burst like a broken dam. “No! No, I had nothing to do with this! Look at my hands—is there a gunpowder stain? Look in my house—I don’t even own a gun! Talk to my butler—he was home with me all last night! Talk to Tyler’s neighbors—I have never been to his house before this morning. Don’t you think someone would have noticed if I’d walked through the courtyard? Or if I went into his house last night?”
I stopped abruptly and started to shake. I clenched my fists and tried to prepare for the next wave of accusations. But Jones just looked at me curiously, as if observing a young child who was throwing a temper tantrum. Hopkins watched quietly, and I may have imagined it, but the expression on his face seemed troubled. Then, without saying another word, they nodded to each other and left.
I stayed there in the interview room for what felt like weeks. Eventually the door cracked open and a familiar face peered in. “You can go now,” Hopkins said, and I blinked up at him, unspeaking. “We’re finished with you here,” he added gently. “You’re free to go home.”
I thought at first that he was trying to trick me, but then he stepped back out again and kept the door open. I stood and walked into the hallway. The station, or at least that part of it, was eerily quiet; there were no policemen milling about.
“You should go out the back way,” said the young detective, and his voice was kindly. “You’ll be able to avoid the cameras that way.”
I heeded his advice and went out a back door, into an alley filled with garbage. It was dark outside—the whole day had passed. There was no one on the streets, so I walked through downtown and then along a series of small roads. I walked the entire six miles back to my house, and did not emerge again for several weeks.
In retrospect, I realize that the police never truly suspected me or they would not have let me go so quickly. Even Jones’ harsh line of questioning was just meant to shake loose information, some fact that might set them down the proper path. He upset me, I think, more through his insinuations about my personal life than by his suggestions that I was involved in Tyler’s murder. For as I stayed locked up in my house during those weeks after the killing, I felt a shameful and uncontrollable anger at Tyler, the very jealousy that Jones had accused me of. Perhaps I hadn’t allowed my envy to come fully to light until somebody else had unleashed it. I liked Tyler, and admired him, and had never wished him ill—but there was a part of me that was not altogether displeased that he was now out of the picture. This feeling would then be followed by shame at having such thoughts, as well as genuine sadness about his death.
For the first several days after Tyler was murdered, I couldn’t bring myself to dress in the morning. Phillipe would make me breakfast and bring me the paper, and then leave me to myself. He delivered my only communication with Elizabeth during this time, a note asking her how she was holding up; I couldn’t send a telegram since the telegram companies were all in the pay of the papers. Her reply arrived the following morning, by way of her maid: Police were terrible. Have to go back this afternoon. Can’t sleep, can’t eat, don’t know what to do. But the fact that she had sent a note at all, and that it was coherent, assured me that she was basically all right.
I called several people, including David Rosenberg at Perennial, but no one would come to the phone. The only person who tried to reach me during this time was Hanako Minatoya, and I couldn’t bear to speak to h
er—not so much because of Tyler’s death but because of the shame I felt on so many accounts, most immediately my friendship with Elizabeth. For that piece of information, like so much other private business in the wake of Tyler’s death, quickly became known to the public. The front page article in the Los Angeles Times two days after Tyler’s death detailed how Elizabeth had called me on the morning of the murder, and how we’d had “a long and close friendship.” This alone was bad enough, but on the second page the paper had published a sidebar with the names of all the men with whom Elizabeth had ever been linked. I cannot say now what troubled me more—seeing my own name there in stark black-and-white or seeing it at the end of a rather long list of men, most of whom I knew and had worked with. Our affair had been grist for the Hollywood rumor mill, yet until then it had stayed out of the general public. Now everyone knew, which would only cause further damage to our already fragile reputations.
In those days, I got news about the case the way that everyone did—from the Los Angeles Times and the Herald Examiner. The first day’s story was about the death itself and the questioning of Elizabeth, Willy, and me. The second day’s news included the story about Elizabeth’s love interests, but the speculation slanted more toward Tyler’s supposed enemies—a driver with whom he’d had a falling out, a jealous producer whose wife had pursued the director, a recently fired contract actor from Perennial who was rumored to supply drugs for other actors. There was also more extensive coverage of Tyler’s friendship with Elizabeth, which the paper characterized as “an unofficial engagement.” I knew this to be untrue, though the inaccuracy of the claim didn’t make it any less painful. The third day’s news focused almost entirely on the fired actor, who’d apparently had a public confrontation with Tyler over drugs in the days before the murder. But then the man turned up—he’d been vacationing in Mexico—and he had been there on the day of the murder.
