Primary Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “No,” he answered quietly. “I’m not Daddy. But I’m your friend—I want to help. I knocked on the door, but no one answered, so I let myself in.”

  She stared at him, puzzled, as if he were speaking in a foreign language. Her initial rush began to fade; her eyes seemed droopy and tired.

  “I was here this afternoon. Remember?” He was standing directly in front of her now. Her dark hair was stringy and matted; it hadn’t been washed for weeks. Her pale face was smudged and dirty.

  She continued to stare at him. “Are you Harriet’s helper?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Ben said quickly. “That’s it. I’m her new helper.”

  “Harriet told me to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid.” The pained look crept back into her eyes. “Daddy might come for a visit.”

  Ben sat down on the love seat next to the sofa. He gestured for her to sit on the sofa, but she hung back in the hallway, clutching her bathrobe.

  He knew he needed to gain her confidence or he would get nowhere. “Do you like poems, Catherine?”

  She nodded slightly.

  “I do,” he continued. “Do you know this one? ‘To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee/One clover, and a bee/And reverie.’ ”

  “ ‘The reverie alone will do,’ ” Catherine said slowly, “ ‘if bees are few.’ ”

  I was right, Ben thought. “Catherine, I know Harriet was very busy tonight—maybe she didn’t get to do everything you wanted her to do. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Can I have a bath?” she asked quietly, without looking at him. Although Ben sat only a few feet from her, her eyes couldn’t seem to focus on him. “Harriet left, but I didn’t get a bath.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “She almost never lets me anymore.”

  “Of course you can have a bath. I’ll run the water.” Ben stood and walked toward Catherine and the hallway. She did not move away from him. Her expression was of almost palpable sadness. Sadness and exhaustion.

  He took a wisp of her straggly black hair in his hand and brushed it away from her face. Then he walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and started running the water. After a few moments, Catherine timidly followed him into the bathroom.

  “How hot do you like it?” he asked. She looked at him as if he were speaking gibberish. He adjusted the knobs for a medium-warm temperature.

  “That’s enough,” she said. She reached past him and turned off the faucets. The tub held perhaps three inches of water. “I’ll need a towel.”

  “Are you sure that’s enough?” Ben asked. Catherine did not answer. She began to remove her bathrobe. “I’ll go out and … find you a towel,” Ben said, embarrassed. He stepped out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  Ben found the linen closet and removed a white towel. He stepped into the bedroom and checked the dresser drawers. No panties or bras—no undergarments at all. No ornaments or photos or any other indication that a person actually lived there. On the nightstand next to the bed, Ben found a small book of poems by Emily Dickinson and four large bottles of pills, two of them about half empty. He read the labels, but it was all pharmaceutical Greek to him. Sleeping pills, he guessed, or maybe tranquilizers. Four different kinds.

  He carried the towel back to the bathroom door. On the floor, outside the door, he saw Catherine’s bathrobe tossed in a heap, next to a brown towel. He bent down to pick them up, then stopped. The towel stank abominably, like the worst smell from the worst sewer from Ben’s worst nightmare. The towel was knotted on both ends, like a diaper.

  “Don’t you have any”—he paused, searching for the right word—“undergarments?”

  “No,” Catherine said from inside the bathroom. She was still whispering. “Harriet couldn’t buy any. It would attract attention. Daddy’s spies are everywhere. Making sure I’m good.”

  Ben glanced through the crack in the door and saw Catherine’s reflection in the mirror. She was standing naked in the tub. The water barely covered her ankle.

  “Is the water too hot?” he asked through the door.

  “It’s fine, thank you.”

  “But … why are you standing? Why don’t you sit down?”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no. I could fall asleep and drown and die. It happens every day. Daddy says.”

  Ben looked away from the bathroom. “My God,” he murmured under his breath. “What have they done to you?”

  “I’m ready to get out now.” Ben heard the sound of water splashing as she stepped out of the tub. He handed the clean towel through the door and, a moment later, handed through her bathrobe.

  She stepped outside. The smudges on her face were still there, perhaps smeared, perhaps a bit faded. Her eyes were red and bloodshot and tired. Ben held her by her upper arms and, to his surprise, she did not shrink away.

  “Look, Catherine,” he said, “I’m going to take you out of here.”

  “No!” she cried, horror-struck.

  “For God’s sake, why not?”

  “He’ll find out! He’ll find out!” She was breathing heavily again, punctuating her words with desperate gasping noises. “He’ll kill her! I have to stay here and be good. I have to prove it’s safe for him to bring her back.” Her hands pushed against Ben’s chest.

  “Who is he, Catherine. Who is he?”

  “If I’m good, he’ll reward me, he’ll bring her back. If I’m bad again, it’ll be worse than before.”

  Ben held her tightly. “Bring who back, Catherine? Your baby?”

  “My baby!” She was screaming, protracting each syllable. “My baby! God, please don’t take her away! Please! I’ll do anything. I can’t live without my baby!” She tried to say more, but there was no more left in her. Her chin dropped.

  Ben took a red handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “Here. Wipe your eyes.”

  She stared at it. “I can’t use that. It’s too pretty.”

  “No, really. Take it. It’s for you.”

  “For me?” She seemed amazed. She held the handkerchief against her face, then placed it in her bathrobe pocket.

  Ben held her firmly in his hands. She pulled herself against him, and they hugged one another tightly. Her tears washed against Ben’s face.

  “Will you help me?” she pleaded.

  “I’ll do anything you want,” he said. Gently, he moved her to the bedroom and lowered her onto her bed.

  “Stay with me,” she said. She touched him lightly on the arm.

  He pulled the covers over her. “I really can’t. It wouldn’t be—” He stopped. Her eyes were beginning to well up again.

  “Perhaps for just a little while,” he said. He lowered himself to the bed and cuddled next to her. He knew that he shouldn’t be doing this, but at the same time, knew that he should. She had asked him to help her and he would, damn it, he would do anything she wanted. It was time for him to do something right, and he would. He would.

  37

  BEN EASED OFF OF the bed, careful to create as little disturbance as possible. Without turning on the light, he found his shoes. As he stepped toward the door, his foot fell on something sharp. He started to cry out but caught himself. He reached down and plucked the object from his foot. It was a syringe. He wasn’t surprised.

  He crept into the hallway, pulled on his shoes, tiptoed out of the apartment, and locked the door behind him.

  The sun was just beginning to rise; the first orange rays were seeping over the horizon and surrounding the broad outlines of the Williams and Bank of Oklahoma Towers. The fresh morning air felt invigorating, cleansing.

  Ben walked briskly, then began to jog, down the street to his Honda. He drove back to his apartment, thinking he would shower and change his clothes before calling Mike.

  He rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor, reached for the doorknob to his apartment, then froze. His mood took a sudden, crashing, downhill turn.

  The door was not shut.

  Ben stared at the door, listening intently.
He always shut and locked his door before he left. Always. And it was way too early for another visit from Julia.

  Ben steeled himself. He kicked the door open and pressed himself up against the outside wall.

  There was no sound inside.

  After a moment, he stepped into the apartment. Records, books, pillows, and boxes were scattered across the floor. The television was shattered; shards of gray glass lay on the floor beneath the broken box. The stereo cabinet was upset and lying on the floor; the turntable cover was crushed. Ben saw what little he owned smashed and broken into pieces.

  The kitchenette was just the same. Everything was upside down and out of place—pots and pans on the linoleum floor, plates broken, refrigerator door wide open. In the bedroom, clothes were scattered, and his sleeping bag was thrown in a heap in the corner. Either a hurricane had blown through during the night, or someone had ransacked Ben’s apartment.

  Someone, it suddenly occurred to Ben, who might still be there.

  Ben ran out of the apartment and stood outside the door. This is ridiculous, he told himself. I’ve been in every room. No one is there. Somehow, logic didn’t make him feel any better about going back inside.

  While Ben deliberated, his telephone rang. After three rings, he decided to brave it. Once inside, it took him three more rings to find the phone, buried under a pile of heavily starched and now thoroughly wrinkled white shirts.

  “Who is it?”

  “Where the hell have you been all night? I’ve been calling since three in the morning.” It was Mike, and he sounded hostile.

  “Mike, thank God. I was just about to call you. Someone searched my apartment. Tore the place apart.”

  “Yeah?” Mike sounded decidedly unsympathetic. “Maybe if you spent more time there these things wouldn’t happen. I mean, I understand, a guy’s been in town not quite two weeks, he starts to get a little lonely—”

  “Look, Mike, I need help—”

  “Sounds like you’re doing okay to me, lover boy. But that’s not why I called. I’ve got another stiff on my hands.”

  Ben felt the gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach intensify. “Who?”

  “Don’t know. No identification.” Then he added: “It’s like before.”

  “What do you mean, like before?”

  “Like why the hell do you think I’ve been trying to call you? I’ve got another corpse bearing your business card! Clenched in his rigor-mortised fist!”

  Ben began to breathe rapidly. “What does he look like? It is a he, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s a he. He’s about five foot eight, short dark hair, probable Italian descent, no chin, beak nose.”

  “My God. It’s Brancusci. The accountant. Mike, this is very important. Did he have any papers on him?”

  “Nothing. I told you—he’s been stripped clean.” The gnawing sensation was like a knife. Ben began to feel light-headed. “Got any suspects?”

  “Just the usual,” Mike replied. “You.”

  Ben and Mike stood in an alleyway in the heart of old downtown Tulsa, a few blocks north of the river, wedged between Ernie’s Pool Hall and a tiny Greek restaurant. Both were closed; their Fifties-era neon signs were dark. Diagonally across the street, the scuzziest Safeway in town was just beginning to open for a new business day. The street people huddling over the sidewalk vents began to awaken, stretching and urinating and brushing the night’s grime from their clothes.

  For the first time in his life, Ben considered whether déjà vu was more than a cliché. The weather was misty, wet, and unpleasant—just like before. He and Mike stood in a filthy alley—just like before. Again, he watched paramedics lift a broken corpse onto a stretcher with considerable difficulty and stash it in the back of an ambulance. Again, he knew that the only thing sparing him from a grueling police interrogation was a former relation by marriage to the investigating detective. There was one difference, though, Ben told himself, one key difference. This time, it was probably my fault. He had promised Brancusci he would call, but in the excitement of locating the apartment at Malador, he had forgotten all about Brancusci. Even after seeing how anxious and afraid he had been at the party, Ben had forgotten. And now Brancusci was dead.

  “This Brancusci guy had your business card clenched in his fist,” Mike said. “Any idea why?”

  Ben told him about his meetings with Brancusci. He also revealed the details about the apartment at Malador and his chat with Harriet. He declined to tell Mike about his return visit.

  “Something is going on in that apartment,” Mike murmured. “I’m going to send out a couple of uniforms to check it out.”

  “Not yet,” Ben said quickly. “Any bust now would tip off the man in charge. If we wait, we might be able to use the apartment to track down our killer.”

  Mike exhaled wearily. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “Do you know how Brancusci was killed?”

  “Same as before,” Mike said, with a sort of a grunt. “With a big knife. It’s too early to tell, but it looks like it could be the same knife that was used on Adams. We’ve found no trace of a weapon. I’ve got men searching the general area, but I’m willing to bet we won’t find anything. The killer’s smart enough to take the knife home and stick it back in his roast beef.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “We’re not sure. We got an anonymous phone call about two in the morning. I’d guess it was another street person, except they probably wouldn’t have a quarter for a telephone call. Did you get a look at the knife wounds?”

  Ben swallowed hard. “No,” he whispered.

  “Unfinished business,” Mike said. “I’m making a big guess, based on what happened to the Adams corpse and the evidence that the two killings are connected. I’m guessing that our killer got caught in the act. I think he’d made the fatal slice and was just beginning the sicko mutilation when someone cut in. So to speak.”

  Ben ignored the morbid humor. “Who could have seen them?”

  Mike shrugged. “Anyone. Drunk. Prostitute. Street person. You’d be amazed how many people are running around Tulsa late at night, particularly downtown. Most of them have nowhere else to go. I’ve got guys interviewing to see if anyone saw anything significant.”

  “Think you’ll have any luck?”

  “Who knows?” Mike thrust his hands in his overcoat pockets. “The homeless aren’t really renowned for their sense of civic obligation. Most of them don’t like cops much, either. Cops are always pushing them around, telling them to get off the streets. As if they could.” Mike paused. “There is one thing in our favor, though. I can’t believe the killer chose this place. My guess is Brancusci lives around here and insisted on meeting somewhere nearby. The way I see it, the killer calls Brancusci up, they agree to meet somewhere, and Brancusci gets knifed. Killer drags the body into the alley and begins to slice.”

  Ben rubbed his throbbing temples. “It doesn’t make any sense. When I saw Brancusci last, he was totally on edge. Why would he agree to meet the killer out on the street in the dead of night?”

  “The killer probably didn’t identify himself as such,” Mike answered. “Maybe he pretended to be you.”

  The churning in Ben’s stomach seemed to explode, like a firecracker in the duodenum. Of course. It made sense. Ben was long overdue. Brancusci would be waiting for him to call so that Brancusci could give Ben the financial records Ben had bullied him into providing.

  “Excuse me,” Ben said. He walked down the alley, turned around the corner to the back of the building and fell to his knees to be sick. He retched a futile retch. He realized that he had not eaten since—when? He could not remember his last meal. He had been busy. Busy forgetting about Brancusci.

  Slowly, Ben rose, wiped his mouth, and walked back to the alleyway.

  “We’ve got to go see Sanguine, Mike, and you’ve got to make him talk.”

  Mike guffawed. “Right. Just like on TV. He’ll break down, whimper, and confess.”
/>   “Then scare him. Teach him the fear of God and the criminal justice system.”

  Mike fidgeted with his pipe. “I don’t even know what it is we think Sanguine has done. I don’t understand how it all fits together—the fraudulent records, the apartment at Malador, Adams, the little girl. What do we charge him with? Corporate fraud? We can’t tie him to either murder, and it’s not against the law to rent an apartment.”

  “Sanguine has to be the killer, Mike.”

  “Think you’ve got it figured out, huh, Sherlock?”

  “Yeah, I think I do.”

  “Know who trashed your apartment? And why?”

  “I think Sanguine was looking for the stolen records. Maybe Brancusci wasn’t stupid enough to carry them with him when he got killed. Or maybe Sanguine wanted to see if I had copies.”

  Mike looked at Ben and held his gaze firmly for a moment. Then, with an air more of resignation than confidence, he opened the door of his car and slid behind the wheel.

  “You’d better be right,” Mike said simply.

  “Let’s take separate cars,” Ben said.

  Mike nodded. “I hope one thing has occurred to you, though,” he added. “Whoever the killer is, he’s apparently killed to lay his hands on misappropriated financial records. That killer may also believe you have the same records.”

  “So?”

  “You know what Shakespeare said, kemo sabe. ‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.’ ”

  Ben’s body suddenly turned cold, “Christina knows about the records, too,” he said.

  Before Mike had a chance to answer, Ben ran down the street to his Honda, gunned the engine, and pulled out into the street.

  38

  BEN BOLTED OUT OF the thirty-eighth floor elevator, jogged around the corner, and ran down the corridor to Maggie’s station. Maggie was reclining in her secretarial chair and thumbing through a fashion magazine.