Line of Vision

by David Ellis

  The smell of good scotch comes from my mouth, which I realize is wide open. I wipe my forehead with the sleeve of my overcoat. I think of getting a drink, but I still can’t move from the chair. I just stare at the walls.

  “I love you.” That is all I need to say to her tonight, in my semidrunken, wallowing state. I will not tell her that she has made my life real again, passionate, tender, electric. I will not tell her that a world without her is not a world at all. I will not tell her that this is killing me.

  17

  I GROAN BEFORE I OPEN MY EYES ON SATURDAY morning. I feel the dull pain in my back from spending the night in a recliner. I squint to see the time on the VCR above the TV. It’s sometime after eleven. Sunlight has fallen on my patio, the first time it’s been out in days. The television is on, a couple of Washington types are debating the pros and cons of affirmative action on a news show.

  My shirt is stuck to my chest, my face damp. Sweat, from spending the night in my overcoat. I smack my lips and taste the sour remnants of the scotch.

  I finally push myself out of the recliner and head to the front door. But I don’t want to open it. I move to the window and look out. Nothing, nobody in my driveway. One car parked up the street, belongs to one of my neighbors.

  Nothing better to do, I return to the sweaty recliner, reach for the remote, and surf. Motorbike racing on the sports channel, a little early for the first college hoops of the day. I flip back to the debate on minority set-asides, a topic on which I typically hold pretty strong views. I want, more than anything, to care about this issue, to care about the same things everyone else cares about today. Whether my college’s football team will win one for the Gipper. Whether I should go in to work or just enjoy the day outside. Whether I should clean up the house or wait another week.

  But since the evening the esteemed Dr. Reinardt left this world, I am unable to care about anything but the investigation. I welcome any diversion—work, sports, a conversation with friends—but I can’t escape it. With each passing day, it controls me more. For a moment, here or there, it leaves my mind, only to return with a jarring force.

  I finally get out of my clothes from the night before and shower. I spend a good half hour in there, scrubbing every orifice, shampooing my hair over and over. The hot water finally turns cold, and I punch off the faucet. I step out and don’t even bother with the towel, just stand dripping wet and naked, staring into the mirror bordered with steam.

  She gently pushed me back a step, her face close to mine. She looked into my eyes, a calm, steady gaze. I felt her hands on the buckle of my pants. She pulled the two sides of the clip apart. Her eyes still on mine, taking in my reaction, her sweet breath on my face, she reached for my zipper. My tuxedo pants were a little big for me; I had rented this thing for the foundation fund-raiser. As she pulled down the zipper, my pants fell to my ankles. She reached around and unhooked the cummerbund, tossing it to the floor. Her hands ran over my pleated shirt, one hand stopping over my heart, which pounded through the material. That gave her a little smile.

  Her nails wandered down toward my waist. Her fingers crept inside the elastic of my boxers, pulling them off my skin and down, over my erection, letting them fall to my ankles. Her eyes still on me, enjoying my excitement, feeding off it. Then she took a step back, and her face left mine, down to my chest, down farther.

  My eyes return to focus, and I look at the man standing hunched over the bathroom sink, wet hair falling into his face, one hand on the sink, the other out of the mirror’s view. Don’t adjust your screen; this is your protagonist, in his purest form. Above-average looks, solid job, pretty good intentions all in all, plenty of overtures from the opposite sex over the years, but here I am, standing alone in a bathroom, naked as a jaybird, getting my rocks off while I think of a woman with a future that probably doesn’t include me.

  I towel off, taking care with my privates, and throw on a flannel shirt and sweats, ritual weekend wear. I look at the overflow of laundry in my closet as I fall onto my bed.

  A fear of intimacy, is what one of my old girlfriends in college said about me. It was a pronouncement by Laura Braidwood—the sophomore classics major with a minor in amateur psychology—with a dramatic turn of the head, hands on her hips. A pronouncement to which I laughed out loud, which caused Ms. Braidwood to leave the room in a huff. Why did I laugh? Because it was absurd? Because the truth was worse than her diagnosis? Or was I just laughing at Laura’s theatrical, self-important behavior? Probably all of the above.

  No, Ms. Braidwood, not a fear of intimacy. Just a lack of desire. I must have been sick the day they passed out the impulses for love and companionship and family, because I have absolutely no desire for any of that. None. Zero. I’m a guy who likes to fly solo, where there’s no disappointments, no commitments, no hassles, no expectations, no apologies. The thought of having children, running around after them and watching the clock at work so you can hurry home to wipe their butts or give them the car keys, makes me tired, if not nauseous. I said to Jerry Lazarus once that I refuse to bring a child into this world until I’m prepared to give them the commitment my father gave me. But the truth is, I’ll never be prepared for that. I just don’t want to deal with it. Listen, I’m no rebel. I’ve done my bit to go along–get along, and then some. College, frat house, master’s degree, cushy job in a downtown skyscraper, even joined that charity. I look great on paper. But when the smoke clears, it’s just plain old twisted Marty, going about his business and waiting for the day everyone’s going to realize the emperor is wearing no clothes.

  We’re all dying, as they say. I’m just more aware of it than most.

  I sit up as the doorbell finally rings. I walk into the bathroom and run my hands through my damp hair, finger-combing it into some semblance of a yuppie hairstyle, off the face with a few bangs falling forward. I find my wallet in the overcoat lying in a ball by my bed. The keys, too. I turn off the bedroom light as the bell rings a second time. The sun probably makes it look warmer than it actually is outside, but I don’t bother with a coat. Kind of funny, the sun picks today to rear its shiny face.

  The bell rings impatiently as I make my way down the stairs. I break from my customary practice of looking through the small rectangular window in the door to see who’s calling; even in my distracted state last night, it wasn’t hard to notice the car following me. I take one look around; the lights are off, the television silent and looking forward to an extended rest. With a deep breath, I turn the deadbolt and open the door.

  I push open the screen door with a smile, more a smile of resignation than one of happiness. Maybe in a sense I am relieved, too.

  Detective Cummings grunts a hello. “We’d like to talk some more, Mr. Kalish.”

  “Fine.”

  “Down at the station,” he says with authority, his chest rising.

  “Okay.”

  “You want a minute to get your stuff together?”

  “No,” I tell him. I’m ready.

  18

  HIGHLAND WOODS AND FOUR OTHER UPPER-CRUST suburbs—individually small but collectively populous—have formed a Major Crimes Unit that uses the Highland Woods Police Department when necessary. I say “when necessary” because there aren’t a whole lot of major crimes in these here parts. Besides an occasional drug bust, probably little more than disturbing-the-peaces and shoplifting. I’ve never heard of any murders in any of these towns. This probably accounts for the turned heads as I enter the squad room. The detectives, all three of them, must be green with envy that old Cummings bagged this one.

  As I walk through the station, I find myself comparing it to the ones on television. This is cleaner than any of them, nice steel desks each with a computer, large windows that welcome the sun, the scent of flavored coffee in the air.

  Alex Nicholaos, the younger detective who showed up with Cummings at my doorstep, offers me a cup of coffee as I sit down in the room. I decline, and Nicholaos leaves me to my worries. I survey my di
mly lit quarters. Nothing more than four gray walls, a short table in the middle, and three chairs. Not a bad attempt at intimidation, I suppose, were it not for the lingering scent of Pine-Sol. I wonder which of the walls is the one-way through which other officers can watch and listen.

  I wait alone for about twenty minutes. My hands are together, resting calmly on the table. I will not give my secret audience the pleasure of watching me fidget.

  The door to the room—an unusually thick wooden door—opens abruptly, and Detective Cummings closes it just as harshly behind him, the sound echoing off the walls. He walks over to the chair across the table from me and plants himself. He sits forward, resting his arms on the table, and looks me in the eyes, measuring me. I return the stare as best I can, which is to say, probably not very convincingly.

  “Thanks for coming down, Mr. Kalish,” he says to me. “I’m hoping you can help me out. Actually, I’m hoping I can help you out.”

  That’s a fresh one. These guys have something more than just a fleeting notion that I’m involved in this. They tailed me last night, I’m not sure how long before that. My guess is they’re going to come on strong, maybe bluff a little, and see what I’ll give them. I open my hands but say nothing, for no other reason than it seems like the less said, the better. “Call me Marty” is the one thing I do say, which is vintage Kalish, trying to show him from the get-go that I’m not afraid. As if I’m the one who needs to break down the barriers.

  “Ted.” He points to himself. Now we’re Marty and Ted, just two guys looking to help each other out. The detective sighs, running a hand over his mouth as he looks off absently. “This thing,” he finally says, waving a hand. “This has been one bitch of a case, Marty. I’ll be square with ya on that.”

  I nod with disinterest, but my heart does a leap with this admission. Even in my state, I realize this could be bullshit, that this is some game he’s played a hundred times over. But I hope that it’s true nevertheless, that maybe this session won’t end with me in handcuffs, that maybe he’s just looking to go back over some information and then he’ll let me go. Brave, noble, selfless Marty, willing to confess only moments ago when the cops showed up at his doorstep, has now retreated to the familiar form of the man absolutely petrified of going to jail.

  Cummings drops his hands flat on the table. “We got a dead doctor. We got a wife who was doin’ some side business while the doc was workin’ those late hours at Mercy. That’s what we got.” He sits back in his chair, the hand returning to the mouth. “Now, I’ve been a cop a pretty long time. I’ve investigated all sorts a things, right? And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, Marty, it’s that things aren’t usually all that much of a mystery. Pretty early on, the perp’s gonna show himself.” He works his mouth. “Or herself.”

  I shift in my seat, the detective’s clarification finding its intended mark in the pit of my stomach. As casually as Cummings is taking this, he is no doubt gauging my reaction. The best I can do is look confused, which I am.

  “See, when you start lookin’ too hard, and you find nothin’, sometimes you gotta just step back and look at what’s right in front a you.”

  I nod along with Cummings, the furrowed brow and pursed lips now permanently planted on my face until further notice. “Rachel?” I say, for some reason, like we’re just kicking ideas around about how to solve the murder.

  He answers with a shrug. “I’m about as bad a gambler as you can find,” he says, punctuating it with a grunt-laugh. “I mean, I throw money away on the horses like it’s fuckin’ toilet paper.” He leans forward again and focuses on me. “But I think I’d be ready to bet my mortgage on Rachel goin’ down on this.”

  I swallow hard but remain mum. Cummings has hit me with a roundhouse here—he and I both know it—and the words are rushing up my throat now, along with the bile. She didn’t do it. She couldn’t ever do that. It was all me me me. But as off balance as I am, I will not budge. Not yet. I threw off my fearless mask a moment ago and I’m not all that eager to put it back on.

  Cummings runs his tongue over his cheek, like it’s just a thought, who knows? For a moment I think that he may actually back off his prediction. “Well, what the hell,” he says. “This is against my better judgment, but I’m gonna let you know what we’re thinkin’ here.” His hands are out in front of him, the thick brush of hair on his forearms showing from his shirtsleeves, which are rolled up a painful three tucks. “See, we’re makin’ Rachel for this thing. I mean, look. We know their marriage was pretty far from a good thing at this point, right?” He makes a face. “And there’s this affair. Maybe more than one. For all I know, she’s fuckin’ four, five guys on the side.” In all his bemusement, his eyes manage to wander over to me with this last comment. “Y’know?”

  I let my eyes close for a moment in an effort to contain myself. I know, fuck, I know he’s just saying this for my benefit. But for all his posturing and intermittent cheap shots, I begin to believe that at the core, Cummings is telling me what he really thinks here. That Rachel is the killer. I raise a hand to the table to steady myself.

  “What—what are you going to do?” she asked me.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Keep steady now, Kalish. Wait him out. Let him show his hand.

  “But here’s the thing, Marty. Even if we figure on Rachel, it’s still one down, one to go. She didn’t break through that glass door her pretty little self. Right? So all of the guys around the station here, they’re sayin’, look at the guy she was screwin’.”

  My eyes rise up abruptly to meet Cummings’s.

  “So that’s what I’m doin’.”

  Our eyes remain fixed on each other a moment. My move. I consider a grandiose denial. Indignant protest. But his eyes are telling me neither is necessary. He already knows it, sure as he knows that the hair from his eyebrows to the top of his skull ain’t never coming back. He just wants to hear me say it.

  Cummings raises his hands, the white flag. “Like I said, Marty, I wanna help you. These guys”—he jabs a thumb toward the door—“these guys already have you sittin’ next to Rachel at the trial.”

  I clear my throat. “You figure different?”

  “Yeah. See, I know somethin’ they don’t.”

  “That being?”

  “That being that you were nowhere near their house that night.”

  The adrenaline rush to my heart actually causes a groan of some kind to leave my mouth, a sound that doesn’t escape my interrogator’s attention. I pinch the bridge of my nose. My alibi seems to have worked. It worked, all right. I do the math. Kalish is Rachel’s boy-toy. Kalish is jealous of hubby, wants Rachel to himself. Kalish did it! Wait. Kalish has alibi. Ergo, Rachel did it! I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m going to protect you, I told her that night. Either that, or I’m gonna be responsible for you getting blamed!

  “See, here’s where we are, Marty. The boyfriend looks guilty. He looks even more guilty if he denies the affair. So I’m sayin’, let’s get it all aired out. You tell me you were sleepin’ with her. And tell me I’m right about you workin’ late that night at the office. And then, wa-la.” He waves a hand magically.

  I study my hands. There is a distinct odor of sweat coming from me now. The smell of fear, I suppose, bitter and scintillating. My insides are cooking, flamed by the truth that has not yet fully reached my brain: I am responsible for Rachel being a suspect.

  “Let’s start with the affair, Marty. Tell me about it.”

  Tell him about it and make this go away for Rachel. Tell him more than that. Tell him you did it, not her. But still, I can’t say it. Maybe it’s because I’m not the hero I thought I was, can do the crime but not the time. Maybe that’s it, just out-and-out cowardice, that pumps my heart so fiercely that I’m sure Cummings can see it bouncing against my flannel. But there’s more to it than that. Something deep within, where my mind is still connecting the dots, tells me to stick to the basic formula: If Cummings wa
nts you to say it, don’t.

  “What about Rachel?” I ask.

  An eyebrow lifts on the detective’s considerable forehead. “I think you should be worryin’ about yourself right now.”

  I drop my head and close my eyes.

  “If you’re the boyfriend, which I know you are, and you didn’t do it, which I know you didn’t—well, hey, maybe this boyfriend-girlfriend theory ain’t so grand after all. Maybe Rachel isn’t such a good suspect, on second thought.”

  I can’t think straight here, though I’m lucid enough to realize again that this guy might just be playing me—but still, my spirits fly about at the mention of exoneration. For both of us. My face rises to meet Cummings’s stare. He can see the hope in my expression. He returns a compromising look. “But none of that can happen ’less you help me. Dig?”

  I do a long exhale. “Dig.”

  “So let’s talk about the affair.”

  Every time we reach this point, the bells and whistles go off. Do-not-tell-him. The control is with me now. As soon as I let go, Cummings is calling the shots. I know it, he knows it. That’s what he wants.

  “Time’s short, kid. These guys are ready to move now. On both of you.”

  Then let them move! What do they have? Some vague notion that the Reinardts had a bad marriage? Some idea that she was having an affair? That actually provokes a question. “What makes you think I’m the boyfriend?”

  Cummings falls back in his chair, like he can’t believe we’ve regressed. He gives me a sour look. “Je-sus Christ, Kalish. If you’re not the boyfriend, I’m Peter fuckin’ Pan. I’m wearin’ fuckin’ ballerina slippers.” He jerks forward. “Are you shittin’ me? You’re gonna deny this?”

  “I just asked a question.”

  He plants a finger on the table. “Right now, right fuckin’ now, I got probable cause on murder one. On you and your honey. I’m tryin’ to clear you, pal. You start denyin’ this stuff, it’s what I was sayin’ before. You’re hidin’ somethin’, you must be dirty.”