A step sounded softly behind me. Vannuchi stood with hands clasped in front of him, solemnly shaking his head. I stepped back to him.
“Who is she?” I asked quietly.
“Angie Sawyer.”
“What?”
He sighed, regretfully shaking his head. “I should’ve told you more. Everything I knew. If only the fuzz’d been a little easier on us, I would have. This might not’ve happened.”
“You mean it has something to do with Donny Robertson?”
“They say she heard about it, and took a trip. Her first one. You should never take a trip when you’re depressed.”
Suddenly I felt a hot flash of anger. “These goddam flower children. They’re fooling with dynamite, and they don’t have brains enough to realise it. Everyone talks so goddam intelligent. Like you, for instance. But everyone acts so goddam stupid.”
“Well, this isn’t the time to debate it,” he said quietly, staring at the crouched girl.
I sighed. “All right, Vannuchi. You’re the guru. Let’s see you produce. Talk her away from that light well. We usually use a priest, or a minister. So now’s your chance, Vannuchi. Personally, I think you’re a fake. So let’s see who’s right, you or me.”
His eyes were calm as he looked at me; his voice was steady. “That light well goes down three stories to a cement courtyard, Sergeant. She’s halfway over the edge already. You’re wearing the badge; it’s your responsibility. If you want help, you’d better—”
“They’re rigging a net. I can’t do anything. Every time I take a step toward her, she—”
Markham opened the steel door. “The net’s all set,” he said in a loud whisper. “But the fire chief said to say it’s risky as hell, with the baby.”
“Okay.” I moved my head in dismissal. “Get down at the foot of the stairs.”
I turned back to Vannuchi. “How long do these trips last?” I asked in a low voice.
“As much as twelve hours. Even longer, depending on the stuff she took and the dosage.”
“Did she take LSD?”
“I guess so.”
“When did she take it?”
“About an hour ago, I think.”
“Je—sus.” I kicked the gravel at my feet, then regretted it as I saw the girl flinch.
“You know what I’d do?” he said slowly.
“Tell me, Vannuchi. Tell me what you’d do.”
“I’d leave her alone. I’d leave that door open, and I’d wait downstairs, out of sight. Also—” He pointed to the surrounding rooftops. Following the gesture, surprised, I saw knots of people watching us, silently. “Also,” he said, “I’d clear off those people. And I’d keep them away.”
I decided to do exactly as he said. I’d post two patrolmen each on the surrounding rooftops, and I’d station Markham at the bottom of the stairs, out of sight. When she came down—if she did—she wouldn’t see them until they grabbed her.
And then, while I was sweating out Angie Sawyer’s bad trip, I’d have a long, serious talk with Larry Vannuchi.
Impatiently I glanced at my watch.
“How long’s it been?” Vannuchi asked.
“Twenty-five minutes.” I’d left his door open, and placed my chair so that I could see down the hall.
At that moment, what was Angie Sawyer doing? Was she still swaying on the roof’s edge, lost in another world? How many citizens of Haight Ashbury, at that moment, were stoned on some kind of a drug—wandering lost and lonely? Angie Sawyer was one. Walters another, both encountered at random, in less than an hour.
What was it like, in that other world?
I’d never know. Hopefully, please God, I’d never wander farther into that other world than I’d already ventured, five years before.
I allowed my eyes to circle the room as I automatically inventoried the contents: two director chairs, a small bureau and a mattress on the floor. Everything was neat and clean, like a monk’s cell. Orange crates stacked together contained hundreds of paperback books. The walls were painted flat white, without pictures or other decorations. Over the bed, on leather thongs, hung a small piece of twisted driftwood, a tarnished medal for first place in a high school shot-putt competition, and a gold wedding band.
Across the room, Vannuchi looked tired and worried. It was impossible to imagine him a successful, affluent designer. Yet he seemed truthful—even truthful to a fault, or at least to his own occasional disadvantage.
“Why don’t you tell me everything you know about Donny Robertson and Karen Forest?” I said quietly. “It would save a lot of trouble, and probably do a lot of good. And it’d be so simple, Vannuchi. I’m tired of battling with all you intellects down here. Just once today, I’d like to have someone tell me everything he knows about Don Robertson. You said it yourself: you should’ve given me the story before. Already we’ve got one boy dead, plus a girl’s up on the roof, teetering—plus a baby. And maybe all because you, or people like you, decide you’re cop haters. Well—” I took a deep breath. “A lot of people don’t think much of hippies, either. It’s what they call prejudice, Vannuchi, deciding everyone who looks alike acts alike. And prejudice always costs someone—usually the one who’s prejudiced. Just like it might cost that baby’s mother.”
He gave me a long look, thoughtfully frowning—as if he were trying to figure me out. “That’s really very eloquent, Sergeant,” he said slowly. He held up the book he’d been reading. “You should read Eric Hoffer some day.”
“You might find it hard to believe, Vannuchi, but I once went to college. I really did. I graduated, in fact. Not only that, but I met Eric Hoffer a few years ago, when I was a mere patrolman on the waterfront beat. Now, how about it, Vannuchi? Let’s have the story.”
He took a moment to think about it, then started speaking in his high, concise voice—as if he were delivering a lecture: “You’re going to have to sort out rumour from fact, Sergeant. I’ll give you my impressions, plus whatever I believe is the truth, plus the local speculation. You can take it from there.”
I nodded. “That’s my job, Vannuchi. You just talk. In this business, we don’t worry about libel.”
He smiled. “Well, I think that Donny Robertson arrived here just a little after I did, which would make it a little less than a year ago He was like a lot of them: timid and scared. They cling together, you know, trying to live through it. He wasn’t especially bright. I don’t mean he was stupid; he just didn’t have any intellectual basis for ‘making the scene’, as they say. A lot of these hippies, you see, really think they’re accomplishing something, living the bizarre, far-out lives they live. They’re illustrating, by contrast, how far this society has gone towards the brave new world, or 1984. And I happen to agree with them. I think the hippies are the first scattered outriders for a whole host of impassioned pilgrims that might—maybe—succeed in snatching us all back from the flaming brink of eternity. Literally. And in their own way, these hippies are tough. It takes guts, Sergeant, to ignore the fact that people are laughing at you. I won’t go into it now, but—”
From downstairs came a scream. It was the baby’s mother. She hadn’t screamed for almost ten minutes.
Vannuchi winced. “But, in any case, Donny was one of the followers. And, as so often happens with followers, he was susceptible. Suggestible. Where some of the peer group smoked a little grass, for instance, Donny got to be a real pothead. He—”
“What about his parents? Weren’t they interested in what was happening to him?”
“I think they tried to find him once or twice. Most of them do. But, really, most of the parents don’t really look very hard.”
“Where did Robertson come from?”
“The San Jose area, I understand. His father is some kind of an electronics engineer—the proud possessor of the whole bag: the station wagon and the sports car, the swimming pool and the de luxe four-track stereo system—the whole bit. That’s the trouble, you see, with these people. They’re so strangled by thei
r possessions, and so obsessed by their sexual fantasies, that they—”
“All right, let’s get into that some other time, Vannuchi.”
“Well, anyhow, Donny went from grass to acid quicker than most. He was one of those that didn’t seem to care much, really, what happened to him. I suppose, if you take the long view, Donny was sure to get himself killed, sooner or later. Some people try to solve their problems by striking out; others—”
“Please, Vannuchi. I’m convinced: you’re a genuine guru. But I’ve got a meeting downtown in about an hour, and I’d like to have something besides a lot of philosophy to talk about.”
“Have it your own way, Sergeant. But that statement is precisely what I’m talking about: no one in this society has time to stop and listen. They—”
“Vannuchi, please. Try to remember, I’m not money grubbing. I’m trying to find a murderer. So for God’s sake—”
“All right, Sergeant, I’ll give it to you in a couple of sentences—all the rumours, all the smut, all the lurid fancies. First, personality wise, Donny was gentle, dependent and confused. The only person he found was Angie Sawyer.” He raised his eyes up towards the ceiling, and sighed.
“They clung together for several months. Ultimately, however, Donny became practically uncommunicative—isolated, inside himself.”
“He was off on one long trip, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“And, to finance it, he pushed LSD for Walters.”
“That’s the rumour, yes. You should remember, though, that LSD was only recently made illegal. And legality is simply a reflection of the power structure’s—”
“All right, I’ve got all that. Now let’s get to the part where Robertson leaves town. What do you know about that?”
“I know,” Vannuchi said slowly, “that he was supposed to have a considerable amount of money when he left. And also, I know that he was scared. It was the first time, for instance, that I remember seeing him rational.”
“Where’d he get the money, do you think? From Walters?”
“I can’t guess, Sergeant. However—” He hesitated, dropped his gaze uncertainly, and finally said, “However, he left town two days after Karen Forest was murdered. And, as I say, he was changed. Completely changed. Something—something deep behind his eyes seemed to reflect—” He waved a helpless hand. “I can’t describe it.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you think Robertson robbed and murdered Karen Forest?”
“I’m not trying to tell you anything, Sergeant Hastings—except what apparently happened, and how it struck me. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
I felt a rising excitement. In investigating a murder-and-robbery, unexplained wealth is always the most reliable indication of guilt—and the most convincing evidence to a jury. Money talks, especially in a court of law.
“Did you know Karen Forest?” I asked slowly.
Again he hesitated, reluctantly. “In fact, Karen and I were contemporaries, both in years and background. And also in temperament, as well as weaknesses shared. So we, ah, saw quite a lot of each other.”
“You had a love affair going with her. Is that it?”
“An off-and-on affair, I’d say.”
“Were you questioned concerning her death?”
“Yes. But I had the feeling your colleagues were mostly interested in proving that Frank Walters killed her. The idea of a white woman—and an ex-society matron, at that—having anything to do with a black man seemed to bug them. Badly.”
“How’d you like the idea? Frankly.”
“Frankly, I didn’t give a damn.”
“But you were having an affair with her yourself. I’d think any other man in the picture, Negro or white, would bother you.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t that kind of an affair, Sergeant. You’d have to know Karen to understand. She was used up, emotionally. All she had left to offer was physical love. And that you can share. It’s when the emotions are involved that jealousy begins.”
“How did she get murdered, exactly?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I don’t know much about it,” I admitted. “I didn’t work on the case.”
“Well, you probably heard the rumour that she had considerable cash in the house, supposedly to finance a drug purchase.”
“I’ve also heard that she often had large sums of money in her house, and that she financed other things in Haight Ashbury.”
“Correct.”
“Did she and Cecile Franks, for instance, ever do business together?”
He smiled. “That’s also correct. They got involved promoting a rock and roll group. And Karen, in turn, got involved with both the drummer and the lead guitarist—both of whom had yet to see their twenty-first birthday. As a result, the entire project blew sky high. It was the only time in local history that Cecile Franks blew both her cool and her bankroll. The gossip was that Cecile had a yen for the drummer, which clouded her good financial judgement. Then there was Maxine Summers, to complete the cast. Maxine is a local member of the lesbian community. But Maxine’s figured out a special way to suffer, aside from merely being a lesbian. She attaches herself to girls who aren’t really interested.”
“She was attached to Karen Forest, you mean?”
He nodded. “Have you met Maxine?”
“Yes. At the Crushed Chrysanthemum.”
Again he nodded. “That’s right. Maxine’s now mooning over Cecile Franks.”
“Who else did Donny Robertson associate with, besides Walters and Angie Sawyer?”
“Well, he occasionally played chess at the Crushed Chrysanthemum with a misanthropic, sadistic, spoiled little creep called John Harper. As a matter of fact, I saw them playing myself, just a day or two before Robertson left town.”
“You don’t seem very fond of Harper, Vannuchi. Isn’t that a little un-Christlike?”
He snorted. “Harper is a plastic hippie, if you’re familiar with the term—straight for a five-day working week, then down in the Haight for weekend trips. Harper is also reputed to be a homosexual, although I don’t think that was his relationship with Robertson. Still—” He shrugged.
“When you say ‘weekend trips’, you mean LSD. Right?”
Vannuchi smiled. “I admit nothing, Sergeant.”
“Don’t worry, Vannuchi. I’m looking for a murderer, not drug addicts. Did this Harper, for instance, consistently go on weekend trips?”
“I wouldn’t say consistently. He’s one of those paranoid types, loaded with suppressed aggressions. That kind usually have bad trips. So they’d rather watch the scene.”
“Do you know where I can find John Harper?”
“No problem, Sergeant. He’s in the phone book. I once heard him boasting about it.”
“Well, that’s a switch.” I glanced at the hallway door. I wondered how Markham was doing, concealed in a cramped broom closet for more than a half hour now. With a certain satisfaction, I could visualise him sweating and fuming. “Do you know anyone named Sandy Tomilson?” I asked.
“Sandy Tomilson—” He hesitated. “The name’s familiar, but I can’t place him. I’ll ask around, if you want me to.”
“I want you to, Vannuchi. Don’t forget.”
He spread his hands, nodding. “I’ll put out the word, as you people say.”
“All right, let’s get back to the actual murder of Karen Forest.”
“Well, she was murdered more than a month ago, if I remember correctly. It was about ten P.M., according to the papers, on a Friday night. At least, that’s when a couple of neighbours thought they heard shots. And I believe that’s about the time your medical examiner decided on. She wasn’t discovered until about two in the morning, though, when some of her hangers-on returned from the revival meeting.”
“Revival meeting?”
“Referring to a programme of music and lights and meditation the Crushed Chrysanthemum offers every Friday evening.”
“Rock
and roll, you mean.”
“On the contrary. Rock music is out, Sergeant. This is Indian music, aiming for the astral plane. It’s all very cerebral. The audience scarcely utters a word.”
“The audience,” I said, “is probably completely stoned.”
Cheerfully he nodded. “You’re probably right. But Cecile is very strict: whatever the patrons take, they take before they come. She’s always very prudent, so that, usually, she takes Friday nights off.”
“Who do you think killed Karen Forest, Vannuchi? Make a guess.”
He spread his hands. “I wouldn’t have the faintest idea, Sergeant. I always assumed it was probably some transient thief who happened to hear that Karen had considerable money in the house.”
Out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement on the stairway leading up to the roof. I froze in my chair, motioning for Vannuchi to do the same. A single bare foot was slowly descending the stairway, followed by another foot. She was coming down. Quickly I got to my feet, crossed the room, and closed the door to a half-inch crack. She was moving with a deliberate, agonising slowness. Now her body was visible from the thigh down. With a small shock I saw that she was nude. I had my whistle tightly clenched in my teeth. Another step, and I’d be able to see approximately to her waist, where she’d be holding the baby. I’d give the signal then, two sharp blasts. And we’d all—
Her right foot was lowering, reaching for the next step down. And in that moment her two hands came into view, slack and limp along either thigh.
I was in the hallway, sprinting as I blew the whistle. Markham was directly in my way, blinking in the light.
“Grab her,” I said, brushing him aside. “I’ll go on up. She left the kid up on the roof.”
The patrolmen were on the steps behind me. The girl was turning, running up the stairs. I caught her ankle with one hand, with the other catching her shoulder, shoving her down, against the wall. The metal door ahead was open. I was standing on the roof, breathing heavily.
“Sergeant Hastings.”
I turned. A patrolman on the next rooftop was pointing urgently.
“There,” he called. “Right there. Behind the smokestacks.”
The Lonely Hunter (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 7
