by D. F. Bailey
※
“You were very lucky, Finch.” Jennie Lee sat at the side of his hospital bed and shook her head with a look that expressed both envy and astonishment. “I really have to question your judgement, though. I mean, what part of you thought it was smart to confront Gruman on your own?”
Finch gazed at her face. Biff Winslow and the county prosecutor had just departed after an hour-long interrogation about the events leading up to Gruman’s death. He felt exhausted from the ordeal and wanted nothing more than sleep.
“Finch?” she hesitated. “Are you with me?”
He blinked and forced himself to sit up. After a moment he said, “Biff Winslow just told me you were there last night. Is that right?”
She nodded. “He wanted someone other than the deputies to be able to testify to the facts. Smart move, as it turns out. With Gruman dead, there’ll be a massive legal case to sort through. Hopefully it’ll bring out whatever there is to learn about the Toeplitz and Smeardon murders.”
Finch nodded, not so sure that an inquiry would prove much at all. The key players were dead, and the dead usually refuse to testify.
“There’re other worries too. The state forensics team is already ramping up an investigation into the shootout last night. The deputies had to surrender their weapons and there’ll be a match-up to determine who exactly shot the bullet that killed Gruman. Some people are calling it a firing-squad execution.” She paused and glanced away.
“Not that it matters,” she continued. “Ethan Argyle has already come forward. Said that he knows he fired the kill shot. From what Manfred and I determined this morning in the examining room, a 6.5mm Grendel was the only bullet to strike him and Argyle was the only 6.5mm shooter. If that’s all true, despite the circumstances, Argyle could very easily do some time in prison. You don’t shoot a sheriff anywhere in this country without being put away to think twice about it.”
Finch held a hand to his cheek and nodded. Bob Marley’s reggae tune spun through his mind: I Shot the Sheriff.
“You know what’s more bizarre? After Gruman fired his gun at your head, the deputies let off at least fifty rounds. But not one other shot hit Gruman. Not one. That tells me one of two things: they’re either the worst shots this side of Canada, or none of them were willing to take Gruman down. Except for Ethan, every one of them remained loyal to Gruman.”
“But not loyal enough to put a bullet in me,” he muttered.
“Thank god. Maybe they just wanted to bring him down a notch. Maybe they couldn’t take his bullying any more.”
Finch thought about this, about Jennie’s version of the events that still flooded through his mind. He rolled his tongue over his newly bonded tooth. He tried to muster a comment, an observation, but all he could say was, “I’m glad you were there.”
“Me too.” She pulled herself up from the bedside chair and clutched her bag with both hands. “Looks like you need some sleep. I’ll check in tomorrow.” She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. It was a motherly peck, a kiss without heat.
As Jennie walked out the door, Finch realized that it was time to go home. Once he had his medical discharge, he’d drive back to San Francisco and file two or three new stories on Ray Toeplitz’s strange passing from the world. Maybe that would help him understand the growing list of questions at the back of his mind.
Alone at last, he pulled his phone from the night table and checked his messages. He scrolled through the index of texts and stopped on something new, a note from Gianna.
“Call me when you get in. I’m making dessert for two. Do you like chocolate?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wally Gimbel tried to be patient, but when he realized that Will seemed unable to grasp his point, he suspected that Finch’s head injury had diminished the reporter’s judgement. He adjusted the phone at his ear and attempted to clarify how they were going to proceed.
“Will, I agree that the overall story is yours. But you have to see it from an editorial perspective,” he said. “And yes, you can write the story related to Toeplitz’s murder. And the tragedy with the boy. But not the shoot-out with the sheriff. I’m giving that to Fiona Page. She’s going to interview you and write the article for the simple reason that once Gruman dragged you onto his front yard and held a gun to your head, you became the story. Everything up to that point is yours. After that, it belongs to Fiona. Have you got that?”
Finch ambled over to the mirror in his motel room and examined the bruise and suture threads on his face. His left cheek ached and the ugly whorl of blacks, yellows and blues seemed to swim across his flesh. His index finger toyed with the engorged tissue at his earlobe. He frowned, then looked away and focused on the conversation. “Of course I get it. The problem is, I’m not going to get the credit. What if I write one of those first-person features you’re so fond of?”
“Not yet. For the next week, this is news, not a feature. And you should know that,” he added. His tone was on the verge of falling into a sophomore-level lecture. He decided to change tactics. “Anyway, you’ll get full credit when you bring this out as a Pulitzer-winning book.”
A book ... if only. Finch realized that with this fantasy, Wally was reaching deep to coax him along. He knew he’d have to capitulate sooner or later. Might as well be sooner. “All right, switch me over to Fiona when we’re done. Then I’m coming home.”
“Excellent. I’ll get her to call you when she’s free. She’s on a breaking story over on Russian Hill. Meanwhile, is there anything I can get you from here?”
“Yeah. The name of a good dentist. I’m supposed to have some kind of follow-up next week. And make sure whoever you find is covered in the eXpress’s medical package.”
※
Finch packed his bag and checked out of the Prest Motel a little before noon. He still hadn’t heard from Fiona and he knew he had one more visit to make before he drove over to Portland and began the long drive south along the I-5 to San Francisco.
Ten minutes later he pulled his car into the driveway at the Argyle’s home. The shock on Millie Argyle’s face when he stood at her front door reminded Finch of how horrible his injuries appeared. The emergency ward surgeon had assured him he’d be back to his “good-looking self within a week.” But the doctor’s advice faded whenever Finch encountered someone who didn’t know about his beating and the subsequent shooting. Finch decided to keep a low profile in the coming weeks, but this visit to Ethan Argyle couldn’t be avoided.
“Coffee?” Ethan pointed to a chair next to the dining table in the middle of the kitchen. “I brewed a fresh pot five minutes ago.”
“Thanks, black.” Finch sat and watched Argyle prepare the drinks. He set the cups on the table, no saucers, no spoons, no napkins, no spare chatter.
Argyle sat opposite Finch and studied his face a moment. “Looks like he got a piece of you.”
“That he did,” Finch said and steered his eyes away. He scanned the kitchen. The Argyles lived simply. A collection of family photos were fixed to the far wall, a calendar had been tacked next to the wall phone. A small collection of recipe books lay stacked under the cupboards, and a Sony ghetto-blaster sat on the counter, unplugged.
“Ethan, I think we both know you saved my life last night.” The words seemed to ball together in his mouth. Finch tried to hold Argyle with his eyes, but Argyle looked away.
“You heard it was me, did you?” He turned his head to Finch and lowered his chin. “Someone told you that?”
“Yeah.” Finch wondered if he should reveal his source. In this case, he realized it would be helpful. “Jennie Lee. She told me she was there during the shooting. She said that after the deputies disabled Gruman’s truck, there was this pause, then he fired, hit my ear — and then you and the deputies let loose.” He lifted a hand in the air and set it beside his coffee mug. “And ... that was the end.”
“Did she tell you only one bullet hit Gruman?” His eyes narrowed and he took a sip of coffee.
> Finch nodded. “And that you called it.”
Argyle turned his head to one side but kept his eyes on Finch. He could trust him, he realized. These were simple facts being uttered. No accusations, no remorse.
“That’s what shook me,” he said. “Nine of us — and everyone else except me shot at the trees. I was the only one who lined him up and pulled the trigger. I just wasn’t expecting that.”
“I guess Gruman had them so full of fear, he figured no one would step up.”
Argyle shrugged. “That’s when I realized that things might go better, legally, if I acknowledged it right away. I knew the forensics tests would show the shot was mine anyway.”
“I guess.”
Argyle pulled himself up in his chair. He considered the facts which would never be confessed. What the sheriff had done to Millie when they were teenagers. And his own silent hatred of Gruman. At what point would they become stated facts, too? Never. Whatever else might emerge in a trial, he would keep them to himself and Millie and bury these truths along with Gruman’s corpse.
“Look,” Finch said, “I know you’ve got a long way to go before this clears up. But there’s two people you can count on. One, Jennie Lee. Winslow brought her along as an independent observer so if things went south, she could be relied on to testify. And face it, she’s credible. Two, me. I’ll testify to exactly what happened. Explain I was in danger of losing my life. That you literally saved it.” Now that he’d said this twice, he felt as if some basic restitution was in place. But he knew he could offer more.
“And Ethan, if there’s anything I can do for you — and I mean anything — just say the word.” He held his eyes and added, “I mean it.”
Argyle nodded and thought a moment. “There might be,” he said.
“Name it.”
“In September Ben’s probably heading down to Stanford. He’s been offered a scholarship.” He smiled, the first hint of optimism in his face that Finch had seen. “Anyway, we don’t know a soul in that part of the state, and since it looks like I’ll be tied up here, it’d be good to know that he could call someone. You know, if any trouble came up.”
“Trouble? Forget trouble, I’ll take him to lunch once a month just to make sure he’s on track.”
Argyle nodded. “That would help.”
A moment of silence welled between them and Finch decided to continue. “You know, last night in the hospital I was thinking about Ben. About the trouble he got into with Donnel Smeardon. But that wasn’t real trouble. That was nothing to worry about — it was just his Michael Phelps Moment.” Finch emphasized these last three words as though they might indicate an historic achievement.
“His what?”
“Michael Phelps, the Olympic swimmer. Remember when he won his eighth gold medal at the 2008 Beijing Games? An honest-to-god world champion. Remember that? Then in February 2009, the photo of him smoking ganja from a bong? That picture of him toking up was beamed all around the planet.”
“Yeah. I remember that.”
“Well, the time he spent with Donnel Smeardon was Ben’s Michael Phelps Moment. He’d been so good for so long, he just needed to see what life was like on the other side. All the time he spent getting perfect grades, applying for scholarships, working on his Eagle scouts, shooting hoops in the gym — he could see the dark side over there, just out of his reach.” Finch waved a hand to the back door, as if another reality lay at hand, even if it was beyond Ethan’s imagination. “He simply needed to touch it, to see if it was real. Or just an illusion that would hold him back from living a full life.”
Argyle rolled his eyes and laughed. “Sounds like you’ve been on the ganja a little too long, yourself.”
“Not guilty. I gave the stuff up years ago.” He laughed a genuine, heart-felt laugh that rose through his chest and provided a sense of release.
“Well, maybe you’re right. Ben’s a good boy. Always has been. I just mistook one thing he did — for something that he really didn’t do at all.” He paused and his mood took a serious turn. He washed a hand over his face with a look of shame. “My god, but doesn’t this life make fools of us all.”
“Almost once a day, in my case.”
He turned his attention to Will and tried to recover their buoyant mood. “Sweet Mother of Mary. With talk like that, I think you need to get back to San Francisco.”
“Yeah, maybe so.” Finch laughed once more, and for a moment he felt the bond linking him with Ethan Argyle. It carried a feeling of tenderness, without sentiment for the past or any expectation that they would see one another again — a moment of respect for all their differences and this strange thread of death and escape from death that now tied their lives together.
※
To maintain his invisibility on the drive back to San Francisco, Finch decided to order all his meals from drive-through restaurants. As he approached the junction of the I-5 and 26 just west of Portland, he stopped at a pull-out in Beaverton and ordered a fruit smoothie. The dentist had advised him to eat only soft foods for the next few days. Finch interpreted this to mean eat only food you can drink. The idea depressed him, but as he drove away from the take-out booth his phone rang and his disposition brightened: Fiona’s name flashed onto the screen.
“Wait a sec,” he told her and parked ahead of the highway on-ramp. A dozen cars whizzed past him. “Okay, I just had to park.”
“Where are you?” she asked. “Or more important, how are you? Wally told me you’ve been shot and then hospitalized. But as usual, no elaborate details from the man.”
“I’m just coming into Portland.” He glanced over his shoulder to read the sign of the restaurant behind him. To his surprise he could see a heavy fog bank rolling in from the west coast, a bit of Astoria chasing him. “I’m parked next to Wilma’s Quik-Stop. And the details are that I was shot in the earlobe, which is now missing in action, and then hospitalized for one night in the surprisingly efficient Columbia Memorial Hospital.” He decided to omit news about his refurbished upper left molar and inserted a brief laugh to demonstrate that despite his wounds he could joke about it. “Oh yeah, and my face looks like Micky Mantle slugged me with a baseball bat. Or to be precise, a Smith & Wesson pistol. And do not start sobbing when you see me because I look much worse than I really am.”
“Jesus, Will. That’s terrible.” She paused. “I literally don’t know what to say.”
“Seriously, no matter what it sounds like, I’m okay. I expect to be back at the eXpress this week.”
“All right.” She paused and her voice shifted to a lower, more serious tone. “Look, Wally assigned this job to me and I want you to know that I did not ask to do this story about you. Okay?”
“He told me.” Finch watched an eighteen-wheeler whiz past him and head down the highway. Behind him he could see the first sheets of fog approaching his car. “And I get it. As of last night, I’m part of the story, therefore no longer reporting my role in it. And to be honest, of all the people in the eXpress who could write it, you are my first choice.” Despite the pain in his cheek, he smiled.
Fiona took a moment to prepare for the interview and to clear her mind of the thoughts she’d had about Will. “All right, are you ready to go on record?”
“Let her rip.”
“Okay, tell me in your own words what happened from the moment you arrived at Sheriff Mark Gruman’s house. When you’re done, I’ll go back to ask you any unanswered questions.”
A pro interviewing a pro. Finch knew she’d be recording this so he began the story as if he were writing it himself. That way he could ensure the story would be faithful to the facts, if not his perspective and style. He cleared his throat and began. “When a recorded conversation between Sheriff Mark Gruman and eighteen-year-old Donnel Smeardon, the recent victim of a premeditated murder, came into my hands, I decided to interview the sheriff to gather his response to the material on the recording....”
Finch spoke for about twenty minutes, time enough fo
r him to relive the nightmare in detail. He shuddered when he considered what might have happened. When he finished, Fiona asked two more questions. First, did he have any idea when he drove to Gruman’s house that he could be murdered himself? Second, how did the deaths of Smeardon and Gruman impact the new inquiry into Toeplitz’s death?
Finch explained that while he thought Gruman might react negatively to the confrontation, he honestly didn’t expect what happened. “Do you think I was reckless?” he asked her.
“Maybe.” She paused and then continued, “I know I wouldn’t have gone up there alone.”
Finch’s finger toyed with the stitches on his cheek as he pondered this. “Whatever,” he said with a measure of self-doubt. After a moment he pressed on with his dictation.
“As for Toeplitz, things couldn’t be more uncertain. Gruman died without ever confirming to me that he killed him, or Smeardon for that matter. I recorded the entire conversation, and there’s not a hint of his confession. And he never confirmed that the Whitelaw twins were there. But I have testimony — and this is off the record, by the way — from Gianna, that tells their whole story. I just don’t know where this thing can go from here. Which is crazy, because that’s what brought me up here.”
“Gianna? Okay, so hold that thought.” Fiona paused as she wondered how to reveal her news. The fact that she’d held onto it for the past half-hour might make her seem manipulative. Maybe that would be the best approach: drop any possibility of manipulation and tell all. “Listen, I’m worried that you’re going to think I’ve been holding back on you when you hear what I have to say.”
“Hear what?”
“I only did it so I could get your interview straight before I filled you in.”
Finch leaned forward and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Fiona, fill me in on what?”
Two more trucks pushed up the road, disappeared through a curtain of mist.
“Gianna Whitelaw committed suicide last night.”
“What?!” He felt himself gag.
