by Stuart Woods
“And how did your…encounter with Ms. Collins occur?”
“Julia invited her to dinner; the two of them cooked. We had a good deal to drink, ended up in the hot tub. One thing led to another.”
“Who did the leading?”
“At the time, I think I’d had enough to drink to believe I was just irresistible to both of them. But with hindsight, Julia.”
“Did you continue this out of the hot tub?”
“We moved to a bed.”
“Which bedroom?”
“One in the guest wing; the one where…”
“I see. And who chose that room?”
“Julia. She said something about the sheets not being fresh in our bedroom.”
“What about the second encounter?”
“It was pretty much like the first, except on that occasion, I think everybody knew ahead of time where the evening was heading.”
“Have you seen Monica Collins since then?”
“A couple of times, at other people’s houses.”
“What sort of terms are you on with her?”
“Good, I think; she was always cordial, seemed glad to see me, as well as Julia.”
“Did she ever make any reference to your earlier encounters?”
“No, but then she wouldn’t have had the opportunity on those occasions.”
“One more thing: Would you say that, during your sexual encounters, Ms. Collins exhibited an equal interest in you and Julia?”
“No. I mean, she certainly seemed excited with me, but once I was done in, she and Julia turned to each other, and I’d say it was pretty clear that she was a lot more excited by Julia than by me.”
“On both occasions?”
“Yes. It was pretty much the same both times.”
“How do you think Ms. Collins would feel about testifying about these encounters?”
“Well, I…my impression of Monica is that she’s a good deal more uptight when sober than after a few drinks—perhaps even a bit prudish. My guess is that she would be horrified at the thought of testifying.”
“If I subpoenaed her, do you think she’d tell the truth under oath?”
“Hard to say, but at the time of her divorce from Frank Collins there was a lot of talk around that during the trial, which was acrimonious, she lied repeatedly on the stand.”
“Oh,” Eagle said.
They arrived at the state court building precisely at nine o’clock, in two cars. As they walked to the entrance, Eagle spoke only once. “Don’t say anything unless I tell you to,” he said. “And if I tell you to, tell the truth, but don’t be verbose.”
Eagle gave his name to the district attorney’s secretary, and they were shown in immediately.
“Hello, Bob,” Eagle said, shaking the man’s hand.
“Hello, Ed,” the man replied.
“This is Bob Martinez, the district attorney,” Eagle said to Wolf. “Bob, this is my client, Wolf Willett.”
“Hello,” Wolf said.
“How do you—” Martinez stopped talking and looked at Eagle. “Who?”
“That’s right, Bob. Mr. Willett is alive and well. May we sit down?”
The amazed Martinez nodded and sat down himself, rather heavily. “Well, you’re quite a surprise, Mr. Willett.”
Wolf managed a smile, but said nothing.
“Bob,” Eagle said, “Wolf came to see me last night, referred by a mutual acquaintance. Wolf expressed his desire to offer the authorities any assistance possible in the investigation of the murders at his house, and, being a lawyer himself, naturally he thought he should have counsel. He is, of course, aware of his constitutional rights, and I would like to point out for the record, before we begin, that he is here voluntarily to be of help.”
“I take your point, Ed,” Martinez said. “Mr. Willett, do you have any objections to answering some questions?”
“None at all, Bob,” Eagle said. “Wolf has nothing to hide.”
Martinez picked up the telephone. “Virginia, come in here with a tape recorder and your pad, please.”
When the stenographer was ready, Martinez began.
After an hour of intense questioning, Martinez sat back in his chair. “Just one final question, Mr. Willett,” he said. “Why have you waited so long to report to the authorities that you are still alive?”
Wolf leaned forward earnestly. “Mr. Martinez, I run a film production company that employs some twelve people on a full-time basis and many others part-time. Before his death, my partner, Jack Tinney, had completed shooting on a film for which we both had high hopes. When I learned of the killings, I had no idea what my…involvement with the authorities might entail, whether I would be able to work. It was vital to the health of my company and the continued employment of my people that the film be completed and submitted to the studio for which it was made. I went to Los Angeles for that reason only, and as soon as work on the film was complete, I returned to Santa Fe.
“I know very well that you would have liked to hear from me sooner, and I hope I have not impeded your investigation in any way. If I have, I apologize. I assure you that was not my intention. I am most anxious to learn who murdered my wife and my partner, and I want that person brought to justice.”
Ed Eagle spoke up. “I think you can see, Bob, that Wolf really has no information relevant to your investigation, since he has no memory of the night of the killings. It’s my belief that he may have been drugged.”
“Of course, it’s too late to learn that for sure,” Martinez said accusingly. “Too much time has passed.”
“Too much time had already passed when Wolf learned of the killings, what—forty-eight or more hours later? And that doesn’t include the time it would have taken him to return to Santa Fe from the Grand Canyon. My sources tell me that a drug test would have been negative at that time.”
“Mmm,” Martinez muttered. “Maybe so. Well, it’s a remarkable story your client tells, Ed.”
“I don’t believe there’s any evidence whatever to contradict his account,” Eagle said blandly.
Fishing expedition, Wolf thought.
“Not so far,” Martinez said, biting. “The shotgun had been wiped clean.”
Eagle nodded as if he had known this all along. “Of course, Wolf will be very willing to assist in any way he can at any time, with a view toward developing further evidence.” He leaned back in his chair. “In the meantime, there doesn’t seem to be any reason to detain Wolf further, and he hopes it will be possible for you to release his house from evidence now.”
“Already been done,” Martinez said. “The cleaning lady barged in and cleaned up everything anyway, but we had already finished with it, so no harm done.”
Bless Maria, Wolf thought. Her entry would account for the broken seal on the door.
“Do you have any plans to leave Santa Fe, Mr. Willett?” Martinez asked.
“None,” Eagle replied before Wolf could speak. “Wolf will be available to you at all times until your investigation is complete.” He stood up and stuck out his hand to Martinez. “Will you let me know when that is, Bob?”
“All right,” Martinez said. “I’ll want Mr. Willett to formally identify the bodies, of course. The Santa Fe Police Department will be in touch about that.”
“Of course.” Eagle herded Wolf toward the door. “Of course, I’d like the courtesy of being present if you should have more questions,” he said over his shoulder.
“Sure, Ed,” Martinez said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Eagle took Wolf by the elbow and steered him out of the building.
“That’s it?” Wolf asked, a little dazed.
“Not on your life,” Eagle said “When Martinez has recovered from the shock of finding out you’re alive, he’ll be all over you, and so will the Santa Fe cops and the state police. But at least we’ve bluffed him into not arresting you.”
“Thank God for that,” Wolf said. “I wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of jail.”
“Of course, if they come up with anything even remotely incriminating, they’ll lock you up in a hurry, but we might be able to make bail even then.”
Wolf produced his checkbook and wrote Eagle a check for a hundred thousand dollars, grateful that he had the money. “My bank still thinks I’m dead,” he said, handing over the check. “Give me a couple of days to get my account working again before you deposit that.”
“Sure,” Eagle replied, pocketing the check.
“What do I do now?” he asked.
“Go home, live your life as normally as possible. Go grocery shopping, go out to dinner, be seen around. But wait until tomorrow; it won’t hit the New Mexican until then, and we don’t want acquaintances screaming at the sight of you. The TV stations will get it from the wire services, if not sooner, and they’ll be on your doorstep quick. Say you can’t talk about it until the investigation has been completed, and refer them to the district attorney’s office. Be regretful; don’t appear to be ducking them. Do you have an unlisted phone?”
“One of my two lines is unlisted.”
“Good. Don’t answer the other one for a while; that’ll slow them down.” Eagle stuck out his hand. “Call me, night or day, if you need anything, and especially when you hear from Martinez or the police.”
Wolf gave him the unlisted number, then shook his hand. “Thanks, Ed.”
The two men parted. Wolf got into the Porsche and headed for the house in Wilderness Gate. The car seemed to know the way; it was just as well, because Wolf was somewhat disoriented to be in Santa Fe and still a free man.
CHAPTER
12
A van from an Albuquerque television station was waiting behind the house when he got home. The Albuquerque stations kept units in Santa Fe to cover the statehouse. Still, Wolf was astonished; no more than fifteen minutes had passed since he had left the district attorney’s office. Somebody there must have a direct line to the press, he reckoned.
An incredibly young girl got out of the van with a microphone as soon as she saw him. A cameraman followed, buckling on a battery pack.
Wolf held up a hand. “Hang on,” he said to the breathless young woman.
“Just a few questions, Mr. Willett,” she puffed, sticking a microphone into his face and glaring at the cameraman, who seemed to be having trouble with his equipment.
“There are two ways we can do this,” Wolf said in a reasonable tone.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“My way, or not at all,” Wolf said.
“What’s your way?”
“I’ll make a brief statement on camera, and I won’t answer any questions. And if you try to ask me any, I won’t talk to you again—ever.”
“We’ll do it your way.” She sighed, turning her attention to the cameraman. “Have you got the fucking thing going yet?”
“Up and running,” the man said.
“Shut it off,” Wolf said to him.
The man looked at the reporter. She nodded. He switched it off.
“Now, I’ll stand here, with my back to the tree, and I’ll say my piece. When I say ‘That’s all,’ you cut. Understood?”
“Okay, okay,” the girl replied.
Wolf positioned himself and nodded to the cameraman, who gave him a thumbs-up. “I just want to say,” he began, directing his gaze to the reporter off camera, “that I have just left District Attorney Bob Martinez’s office, where he and I have discussed at length the murders of my wife and my business partner. I’ve told him I have no idea who the other victim was, and that, of course, I will do everything in my power to cooperate with him and the police in their investigation. Mr. Martinez and I both want the murderer brought to justice at the earliest possible moment.” He took a deep breath. “Mr. Martinez and I agree that it will be most helpful to the investigation if I do not speak to the press about recent events or answer any questions relating to the investigation until it is complete. Therefore, this will be my only statement on the matter until that time. Thank you very much. That’s all.” He waited for a beat, then looked at the cameraman and drew a finger across his throat.
“We’re off,” the cameraman said.
Wolf spoke to the reporter before she could speak to him. “What’s your name?”
“Sheila Jackson.”
“Miss Jackson, I’d like you to go now and spread it among your colleagues that you have an exclusive and that I am not going to talk to anybody else. If you do that, and not bother me again, then when this business is over, I’ll give you an interview. If I hear from you before that time, I’ll give it to your rival station. Understood?”
Her shoulders sagged. “Understood.” She and the cameraman piled into the van and left.
Wolf was unlocking the door when a plain sedan pulled up and two men got out.
“Mr. Willett,” a trim-looking Latino said, producing a badge. “I’m Captain Joe Carreras, of the Violent Crimes Section of the Investigations Bureau of the Santa Fe Police Department.” He indicated his colleague, a tall, weathered Anglo. “This is Major Sam Warren of the New Mexico State Police Special Investigations Unit. We’d like to speak with you, please.”
“Of course. Come into the house.” Wolf led them into the living room and seated them on a sofa. “Gentlemen, I’m happy to cooperate with you in any way I can, but I’d like my attorney to be present. Will you excuse me while I call him?”
“Yessir,” Carreras said.
“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, a soft drink?”
“No, sir. We’ll wait while you call Ed Eagle.”
Eagle was there in ten minutes. “Did you say anything at all to them?”
“I offered them coffee; they declined.” He told Eagle about his television statement.
“That was the way to handle it,” Eagle said. “Now let’s go talk to the cops. I’ll stay out of it, unless you start getting yourself into trouble.”
It was clear to Wolf that any astonishment at his being alive had passed and that he was now a prime suspect in a murder investigation. Carreras and Warren bored into him for over an hour, covering every step of his movements since the murders and looking very doubtful when he told them of his memory loss.
“Who was the other victim, Mr. Willett?” Warren asked, as if he expected an answer.
“I have no idea,” Wolf said.
“We’d like you to try to make an identification of him,” Carreras said.
“Gentlemen,” Ed Eagle interrupted. “Dr. Mark Shea, who knows Mr. Willett very well, was unable to give you an accurate identification of the body. I understand most of the face is missing. Were there any sort of marks or tattoos that might mean something to Mr. Willett?”
“None,” Carreras said.
“Then I fail to see how putting Mr. Willett through this could help you.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist,” Carreras said.
Wolf spoke up. “It’s not an unreasonable request,” he said.
“When would you like to do this?” Eagle asked.
“How about right now?” Carreras said.
“Where are the bodies?” Eagle asked.
“Well,” Carreras said, “normally we would have moved them to the morgue at the office of the state medical examiner in Albuquerque, but because the M.E. has been ill, the autopsies were performed in Santa Fe, at St. Vincent’s Hospital, and the bodies are still there. If we wait until tomorrow, you’ll have to come to Albuquerque for the identification.”
“Let’s get it over with,” Wolf said.
At the St. Vincent’s morgue, Ed Eagle took charge. “You wait here,” he said, pointing at a chair in the waiting room. He turned to the policemen. “I want to see them first,” he said.
Carreras shrugged and led Eagle out of the room. They returned a couple of minutes later.
“All right, Wolf,” Eagle said.
Wolf was suddenly afraid. His mouth went dry and he had trouble swallowing; his knees felt watery. He followed the three
men into a room lined with tile on three walls and three rows of stainless steel drawers on the other. Three of the drawers stood open, and sheets covered the three bodies.
“Over here first,” Carreras said, motioning to the drawer farthest to the right. He took hold of the sheet and pulled it off, exposing the entire naked body of a man. A towel had been draped across the face; Carreras did not remove this.
“I had them cover the faces,” Eagle explained. “It wouldn’t have helped you to see them.”
Wolf stepped up to the table and looked at the body. At first his attention was fixed to the stitching that had followed the autopsy; then he forced himself to consider the body. It was about his size and build, he thought. The hair on the chest was graying, like his, the feet larger than his. He could see, though, how Mark might have mistaken the man for him, under the circumstances.
“There’s a significant scar on the inside of the left wrist,” Carreras said, picking up the corpse’s hand and exposing the wrist. An ugly scar about three inches long was exhibited.
“Suicide attempt?” Eagle asked.
“Probably not,” Carreras replied. “It’s too jagged. When people slash their wrists, they usually do it with a razor blade or something else sharp, so they won’t cause themselves too much pain. They usually do both wrists, too.”
“I’ve never seen the scar,” Wolf said. “I don’t know the man.”
“You’re sure?” Warren asked.
“As sure as I can be under the circumstances,” Wolf said. “Without seeing a face.”
“There is no face,” Warren said. “Is there anything else about him that looks familiar?”
Wolf shook his head. “Nothing.”
Carreras led him to the next table and removed the sheet. Jack’s body lay before him; there was no doubt. “It’s Jack,” Wolf said.
“How can you be so immediately sure?” Warren asked.
“I knew him for a long time,” Wolf replied. “We’ve shared hotel rooms, houses; I’ve seen him naked dozens of times. When he came to my house to swim, he would never wear a suit. It’s Jack’s body.”
“One more,” Carreras said, stepping to the other drawer and removing the sheet.
