by Michael Nava
“I was the first one from homicide at the scene this morning,” she said. “Are you familiar with the footbridge?”
I said yes. San Francisquito Creek ran along the eastern boundary of the campus at the edge of the wood that fanned out in both directions from the entrance to the school. As the creek flowed north into the bay, it descended, ultimately becoming subterranean as it crept into town. By the time it reached the edge of campus, there was a six-foot embankment down to the water.
Across from the creek was the edge of a shopping center. The footbridge forded the creek at this point, allowing pedestrians access to the shopping center from the walking paths through the wood. The area around the bridge, some of the densest wood on campus, had a bad reputation since it had been the scene of a couple of rapes a few years earlier. It wasn’t the kind of place people visited at night.
Terry Ormes was saying, “I was there before they lifted the body out of the water. It was just at dawn and I was watching from the bridge. I swear I saw footprints down there on the bank, and they weren’t made by just one pair of shoes.”
“How many pairs of shoes?”
“At least two pair. The sand kept the impressions pretty good.”
“Anyone take pictures?”
“I went back to my car to radio for a photographer,” she said, “but by the time I got back, the paramedics had gone charging down the embankment and pulled him out of the water. They walked all over the place. There was no way to tell.”
“That doesn’t help much,” I said glumly.
She lowered her coffee cup. “That’s not all. I walked up that embankment six or seven times. I didn’t see anything, not a scrap of clothing or blood or hair or even any broken grass. If Hugh Paris slipped down the embankment, he was awfully careful not to leave any traces behind. And there’s one other thing. You saw the body?” I nodded. “Did you see his back?”
“No.”
“There were bruises around his shoulders. I think someone held him face down in the water until he drowned.”
All I could manage was, “Jesus.” There was a long, still moment between us. “Did you tell any of this to Torres?”
“Sure,” she said, “but it didn’t make it into his report. Like I said, Sam’s tired. This one just looked too tough to make out a murder.”
I sighed. “Well, he’s right, maybe. A jury wouldn’t convict a guy of a parking ticket on the evidence we’ve got.”
She gazed at me, coolly. “Why do you care?”
“Hugh was my friend. He told me someone was trying to kill him, but I didn’t believe him. Now I owe him the truth, whatever it may be.”
“Is that all?”
“You really want to know?”
“No,” she said abruptly. “If it’s personal, keep it to yourself, but if it’s something I can use to investigate, don’t hold back. Is that fair?”
“Very fair, detective,” I said. “I need more time before I can tell you anything else.”
She took out a business card and scribbled a number on the back of it. “My home number,” she explained. “This investigation is officially closed, so don’t call me at the office.” She handed the card to me. “I’ll help you if I can.”
“Why?”
“I’m a cop,” she said, a little defiantly. “We’re not all like Sam.”
I finished my coffee then found a phone and called the coroner’s office to ask when they’d release the autopsy report and their official findings. I was informed that the body had been claimed by the family and there would be no autopsy. The preliminary findings—death by misadventure—would stand. It was hard to get additional information from the sexless bureaucratic whine on the other end of the line but, finally, it told me that Hugh’s body had been turned over to his mother, Katherine Paris, who gave a local address and listed the university as her place of employment.
It was dark as I drove home. The tree-lined street where I lived was still and from the windows of my neighbors’ houses came the yellow glow of light and domesticity. My own apartment would be dark and chilly. For a moment I considered driving past my building to the nearest bar but I was too tired. I felt the weight of the day and its images like an ache that wracked my brain. Surely we were never meant to live in the appalling circumstances in which we so often found ourselves, alone, fearful, mute. I parked, got out of my car and stood indecisively in the driveway. With whom could I share this loss?
I could think of no one. I walked to my apartment and slipped the key into the lock. I pushed the door open, walked through the living room into the bedroom and lay on the bed, fully clothed. Despite my exhaustion I made myself relive the last day I spent with Hugh, scouring my memory for clues to his death. He’d risen early, put on a tie and blazer. He said he was going out on business and asked me to meet him at the St. Francis around noon. I’d become accustomed to Hugh’s solitary comings and goings and once I was satisfied they didn’t involve drugs, I relaxed.
I’d arrived at the St. Francis early and had just turned the corner from Geary when I spotted Hugh, his back turned to me, engaged in emphatic conversation with a tall old man. They’d talked for a moment and then the old man got into a silver Rolls.
Uncle John. John Smith.
That’s how Hugh referred to the old man, as Uncle John. But he wouldn’t tell me anything more and we argued over lunch about it.
“I’m protecting you,” I heard him say. Uncle John. That afternoon we made love. And then—
I woke up four hours later, rolled myself over onto my back and sat up. I was certain someone else was in the apartment. I switched on a lamp and made a lot of noise getting out of bed. Then, like a frightened child, I went, noisily, from room to room talking to the darkness as I turned on every light in the apartment. Eventually, I found myself standing in the middle of the living room. I was alone. I stood there for a few minutes, not feeling or thinking anything, not knowing what to do. Then, my stomach, which had been patient all day, roared and demanded food.
I rummaged through the refrigerator coming up with a shriveled apple and a carton of spoiled cottage cheese. In the end, I made my meal out of a bottle of Jack Daniels and a packet of peanuts left over from some long-forgotten airplane trip. I sat down to think. It seemed a waste of time to devise fancy theories about a crime when the evidence was barely sufficient even to establish that a crime had occurred. I believed Hugh had been murdered, but the basis of my belief consisted of Hugh’s unsupported assertions and Terry Ormes’s unrecorded observations. Clearly, I needed to know more about the Paris family and Hugh’s last few months.
The latter I would leave to Ormes—with the resources of the police department behind her, she could tap into the paper trail that we all generate as we go through life. As for the Paris family and Hugh’s relations with it, two names immediately came to mind, Aaron Gold and Katherine Paris. Then I drew a blank. Finally, a third name did occur to me. Grant Hancock. I turned the name over in my mind and mentally wrote beside it, “last resort.” Then I poured another drink.
The law office of Grayson, Graves and Miller, Aaron Gold’s firm, occupied the top three floors of the tallest building in town. A carpeted, wood-paneled elevator whisked me up to the twentieth floor and deposited me in a reception room the size of my entire apartment and considerably better furnished. A middle-aged woman sat behind a semi-circular desk, beneath a Rothko, manipulating the most elaborate phone console I had ever seen. Wading through the carpet, and between the heavy chairs and couches scattered around the room, I approached her and asked for Aaron. She took my measure with a glance and invited me to wait.
Instead, I walked over to a huge globe of the world and spun it. She cleared her throat censoriously and I drifted to the window. The window faced south to the foothills and beyond, where behind rustic stone walls and elaborate electronic alarm systems, the firm’s rich clients kept the twentieth century at bay. Grayson, Graves and Miller was just another weapon in their armory. The receptionis
t called my name and directed me through the door beside her desk and down the hall. I went through the door and found myself looking down a seemingly endless, blue-carpeted corridor lined with closed doors. I heard a lot of frantic voices coming from behind those doors. The refrigerated air blew uncomfortably as I made my way down the hall looking for Gold’s office. This, it occurred to me, was my idea of hell. Just then, a door opened and Gold stepped out and came toward me. The stride was a touch less athletic today, I noticed, and the stomach muscles sagged a bit beneath his elegantly tailored shirt. He was tired around the mouth and eyes and his shaggy hair looked recently slept on.
As we stepped into his office, he instructed his secretary that we were not to be disturbed. On his desk was yesterday’s paper turned to the story of Hugh’s death. I sat down on a corner of the desk while Aaron stood irresolutely before me.
“I was going to call you,” he said.
“I’ve saved you the trouble.” I lifted a corner of the newspaper. “Hugh told me he was in danger of being murdered. I didn’t believe him.”
Gold said nothing.
“He even told me who the murderer would be, his grandfather, Robert Paris. A client of your firm.”
Gold shook his head.
“That can’t be true,” he said, unconvincingly.
“Then what were you going to call me about?”
Gold wandered over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself some scotch. He held the bottle at me. I shook my head.
“You got Hugh’s letters from someone,” I continued, “presumably the recipient. If Robert Paris is involved in Hugh’s death and you’re protecting him, you’re already an accessory.”
“Don’t lecture me about my legal status,” Aaron snapped. “I just want to talk.”
“I’m listening.”
“Judge Paris’s account is managed by the two most senior partners in the firm,” he began, “but there’s enough so that some of it trickles down to the associates. I’ve done my share of work on that account and I’d heard of Hugh Paris, knew he was the judge’s grandson. I’d heard he was bad news,” Aaron shrugged. “I really didn’t give it much thought.”
He sipped his drink.
“Still,” he continued, “when you told me he was in jail, I thought that was important enough to mention to one of the partners on the judge’s account. I thought we might want to do something for him.”
You did, I thought, but said nothing.
“I got the third-degree,” Aaron said. “The two partners questioned me for more than an hour. When they were satisfied I wasn’t holding back anything they explained to me that Hugh had made threats against the judge’s life. I was shown the letters and asked to report back to them anything else that I might learn from you of Hugh’s activities.”
“And did you?”
“Of course I did,” he replied, emptying his glass. “The partners had me convinced that Hugh was dangerous. They told me that he was a drug addict, that his father was crazy. There were disturbing reports from private investigators who’d been hired to keep an eye on him in New York. I not only believed Hugh was a threat to his grandfather but also to you.”
I shook my head. “You never met him.” Aaron wasn’t listening.
“But the more they confided in me,” he said, “the stranger it seemed that the judge would go to such lengths and to such expense to keep track of Hugh. It seemed completely out of proportion to any possible threat Hugh may have posed to Robert Paris.”
“And now Hugh is dead.”
“Yes.” He rose from the couch and went back to the liquor cabinet, pouring another drink. “Three days ago I had a meeting with the partners on the Paris account. They asked me a lot of questions about you—questions that contained information they could have got only by having had you followed.”
“What kind of questions?”
“They wanted to know the nature of your relationship with Hugh.”
“And did you tell them?”
“No, but I think they already knew.”
We looked at each other.
“Three days ago,” I said, “and the next day we had lunch and you tried to talk me out of seeing Hugh. And that night he was killed.”
“I swear I had nothing to do with that,” he said.
“But your client—the judge did.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Aaron said. “I’ve been doing some research. Something’s going on that goes back a long time and involves a lot of people.”
“You’re talking in riddles.”
“I can’t speak more clearly—yet.” He looked at me. “I’m going to stay here,” his gesture encompassed the entire firm, “until I find out. But I don’t want to see you. It’s not safe for either of us.”
“This is no time to split up,” I said.
“They’re watching you, Henry. But they’re not worried about my loyalties. You’re my diversion.”
“Why are you doing this, Aaron?”
“I won’t be an instrument of crime,” he said. “I either have to clear my client of this murder or urge him to turn himself in. That’s my obligation.”
“Then our interests are different,” I said, “because I want justice for my friend.”
He nodded. “I’ll be in touch, Henry. Wait for my call.”
“You have to give me something, Aaron. Something to go on.”
“All right,” he said. “Robert Paris inherited his wife’s estate after she was killed in a car accident. She had a will but she died intestate.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“If you can make sense of it,” he said, “you’ll know who killed Hugh Paris.”
I heard the tremor in his voice and I was frightened for both of us.
I was sitting on the patio of the student union at the university having left Gold’s office an hour earlier. I had come to find Katherine Paris. I stared out across the empty expanse of grass and pavement. Misty light hung from the branches of the trees. A white-jacketed busboy cleared away my breakfast dishes.
School had not yet started for the undergraduates so there was none of their noise and traffic to shatter the stillness. I was thinking about Hugh. The same money that raised this school was responsible for his death. The money was everything and nothing, something that overwhelmed him and which, perhaps, could only be contained by the institution. It had not done Hugh any good, but was merely the background noise against which he played out his unhappiness.
I got up and walked across the plaza to the bookstore. It was a two-story beige box with a red tile roof, a far cry from the excesses of the Old Quad. But then, as the campus moved away from the Old Quad the architecture became purely utilitarian as conspicuous displays of wealth, whether personal or institutional, went out of style. I entered the store and stopped one of the blue-frocked salesclerks, asking where the poetry books were shelved. I was directed to the back wall of the second floor. The poetry books covered a dozen long shelves and it took me a minute to figure out that they were arranged alphabetically.
There had been a brief time in college when I wrote poetry. It was, like most sophomore verse, conceived in the loins rather than the mind. It was a notch better than most such verse, perhaps, but it was no loss to literature when I stopped writing. My brush with poetry, however, left me with a permanent respect for those who wrote it well. Seeing familiar names again, Auden, Frost, Richard Wilbur, took me back to sunny autumn afternoons when I sat in my dorm room writing lame couplets.
Katherine Paris had published a half-dozen slender volumes over the past twenty years and one thick book of collected poems. Each book was adorned with the same photograph I had seen at Hugh’s house and beneath it was the same paragraph of biographical information. She was born in Boston, graduated from Radcliffe, took a master’s degree from Columbia and currently divided her time between Boston and San Francisco. Her work had won the National Book Award and been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. She had been translat
ed into twelve languages—they were listed—and had once been mentioned by T.S. Eliot who found her work elliptical. Nothing about a crazy husband and a homosexual son; apparently, that information was private.
I struggled with about a dozen of her poems before I saw Eliot’s point. Her work was indeed elliptical, she left out everything that was essential, including logic and meaning. Her words neither described nor observed things. They were just words scattered across the page. This was braininess of the highest order, the verbal equivalent of the white canvas passed off as a painting; so abstract that to have expected some sense from it would have insulted the artist. As my attention wandered from the poems, it seemed to me that I was being watched. I closed the book and looked around. The boy standing next to me quickly directed his attention to his feet.
He wore a baggy pair of khaki shorts rolled up at the bottom over a long sinewy pair of legs. He had on a white sweatshirt with a red paisley bandana tied around his neck and a small button with the lambda—the symbol of gay liberation—on it. He had a round cherubic face, short hair of an indeterminate dark color. He looked about twenty. He raised his eyes at me and I realized that I was being cruised, not spied on.
“Hello,” I said, pleasantly.
Pointing at the book in my hand he said, “I took a creative writing course from her last quarter.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “My name is Danny.”
“Henry,” I said. “Did you like the course?”
“Actually,” he confided, pushing his hair with slender fingers, “she’s a good poet but a very neurotic woman.”
“Don’t the two go together?”
“No,” he said, “I reject the notion of the doomed artist. I mean, look at Stevens, he sold insurance and Williams was a doctor.”
“Sorry,” I said, “It’s been a long time since I read poetry. Who are Stevens and Williams?”
He looked slightly shocked. “Wallace Stevens? William Carlos Williams?” I shook my head. Looking at me intently he said, “Aren’t you a student? A grad student maybe?”
“I’m a lawyer and my interest in Katherine Paris is professional, not literary.”
