A Quiet Death

by Marcia Talley

  So I told Jud what I knew about Skip, aka Nicholas Ryan Aupry, and what I wanted him to do.

  ‘I’ll call you back as soon as I have anything,’ Jud promised.

  Nearly a week went by and I was beginning to think that Jud Wilson had blown me off. Then late one afternoon, when I was down in the basement wrestling with a load of laundry, he called.

  ‘It wasn’t easy, Mrs Ives, but I think we’ve managed to get copies of the Library of Congress security tapes for the date that you asked me about. I don’t know what Nicholas Aupry looks like, of course, so when do you think you can come in and go over the tapes with me?’

  Without even bothering to check my calendar, I said, ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Great. Shall we say ten o’clock? Come to the reception desk and ask for me. I’ll escort you up to the viewing room.’

  The following day, I presented myself bang on time carrying a soy latte from Starbucks. Jud was waiting for me in the lobby, as promised.

  ‘How did you manage to get your hands on those tapes?’ I asked as we rode the elevator up to the fifth floor.

  He waggled his eyebrows and twirled an imaginary mustache. ‘Ve haf our vays.’

  He looked so comical, I had to laugh. ‘You aren’t going to tell me, are you?’

  Jud grinned. ‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’

  I raised a hand. ‘Understand completely!’

  The elevator dinged and the door slid open. Jud waited for me to step out ahead of him, then escorted me to a double glass door at one end of the elevator lobby where he punched some numbers into an electronic keypad. The door buzzed, clicked and he pushed it open.

  Jud led me to a windowless, soundproofed room crammed with electronic equipment. A large, flat-screen television dominated one end. Smaller screens stacked in fours bracketed the larger one and seemed to be carrying feeds from all the major networks. The room pulsed with flickering Technicolor, like a department store Christmas display on meth.

  ‘I can’t believe you were actually able to lay your hands on these tapes,’ I told Jud as he pointed a remote at a DVD player and cued up the disk he’d just slid in. ‘I’m really impressed.’

  ‘Thanks, but you’re overestimating my clout, Mrs Ives. ‘I’m about as low on the totem pole as you can get at Lynx News. This is way above my pay grade. It took someone with a lot more pull than I have to make the arrangements. I’m expecting he’ll join us.’

  ‘Is it possible to get information like this through the Freedom of Information Act?’

  Jud shook his head. ‘Security tapes are, in general, exempt from FOIA. I think you can understand why.’

  ‘Dear US Government Infidels. Please send me tapes of your security procedures. Signed, Osama bin Laden.’

  Jud chuckled. ‘Something like that.’

  On the large screen, a uniformed guard observed as a briefcase passed through an X-ray machine. ‘This is the Thomas Jefferson checkpoint, around eight thirty when the library opened,’ Jud explained. ‘Do you know when Aupry is supposed to have checked in?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’m assuming morning, just as I’m assuming he came to the Thomas Jefferson building because he told me he was researching some family papers and that’s where the Genealogy Research Room is.’

  Jud speeded up the video and I watched as the time stamp crept up from eight thirty to nine o’clock to ten. At ten fifteen, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face. ‘There! That’s him. That’s Nicholas Aupry!’

  Jud slowed the video down, reversed, replayed. I watched as Nicholas Ryan Aupry passed through the library security checkpoint carrying nothing but a notebook.

  ‘Are you sure this is Tuesday, September seventh?’ I asked. ‘Aupry should have been carrying a distinctive shopping bag, one with Julius Garfinkel written on the side.’

  Jud aimed a laser pointer at the screen, highlighting the date, 2010/09/07 with a wavering red dot. ‘What was in the bag, do you know?’

  ‘Family letters and photographs. The same ones I came to talk to John Chandler about the other day.’

  Jud shot me a quizzical glance, but when I didn’t elaborate, he returned his attention to the large monitor.

  We continued watching until the tape ended just after five thirty when the last researcher left the building. Nicholas Aupry wasn’t among them.

  Jud furrowed his brow. ‘So, who is this guy? Houdini? Or did he just spend the night in the building?’

  ‘Have you ever done research at the Library of Congress?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet. Lynx News has an extensive library right here in the building, with desktop access to an incredible number of online databases. I’ve never felt the need to go anywhere else.’

  ‘What you probably don’t realize is the three main Library of Congress buildings are connected by underground tunnels. You can walk from the Jefferson Building under Second Street to the Adams Building, and from Adams underneath Independence Avenue to Madison, all without going outside.’

  I pulled an old Annapolis Symphony concert program out of my handbag, turned to the back, and sketched the three buildings in the blank space between ‘We Wish to Thank Our Sponsors’ and ‘Upcoming Concerts.’ ‘There’s even a tunnel that leads from the Madison Building to the Cannon House Office building,’ I added as I roughed it in, ‘although you have to be staff to use that one. Tunnels are great when it’s raining, like it was the last time I was here. Can you believe some creep stole my umbrella out of your lobby?’

  ‘My apologies on behalf of Lynx News,’ Jud said with a crooked grin. ‘So, let me get this straight. Aupry can check in at the Thomas Jefferson checkpoint, but he doesn’t have to stay in that building. Once he has his pass, he can move around pretty freely, building to building.’

  ‘That’s right. He might want to get something to eat, for example, and the main cafeteria is up on the sixth floor of the Madison Building. That’s the big white building on Independence Avenue, the newest one.’

  When I worked for Whitworth and Sullivan I often had occasion to come to the Library of Congress to attend programs or do research, and I’d usually ride the Metro to get there. ‘I’m pretty sure Aupry boarded the Metro at Capitol South, so it’s likely that he used the D Street exit on the south-west corner of the Madison Building. That would put him out at First, right across the street from the Metro escalators. Do you have the security footage from Madison?’

  Jud aimed the remote and brought up a menu. ‘Yes, here it is. September seventh, Madison, D Street. What time do you think we should start?’

  ‘Can you fast-forward to three o’clock?’

  Before Jud could aim the remote, the door to the viewing room opened and John Chandler walked in looking like he’d just stepped off the golf course. He wore a green Polo shirt, chinos and Sperry Topsiders without socks. A pair of Oakley’s were shoved back on his head. Chandler gave us a two-finger salute. ‘Jud, Mrs Ives. Sorry I’m late. Hope I’m not missing anything.’

  I gaped at the man like a mouth-breathing idiot. You can change your name and your hairstyle, I thought, shift your allegiance to other designer brands, your face can even age, but your taste in fashion is a dead giveaway, Mr Alexander Svíčkář.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, when I’d recovered my power of speech. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, Mr Chandler.’

  The tips of Jud’s ears turned red. ‘I guess I should have been more specific. John’s the heavyweight who arranged for these tapes.’

  Chandler selected the chair next to me and sat down, stretching his legs out straight in front of him, looking casual, relaxed, ready to move on to the fourteenth tee. ‘So, where are we?’

  ‘When Jud invited me here, Mr Chandler, I expected to find that Nicholas Aupry, the man I knew as Skip, had lied when he told me he was doing research at the Library of Congress on the day Meredith Logan was murdered. These tapes seem to prove otherwise. He definitely came in, now we’re trying to determine when he went out.’

  Chandler tented
his fingers and tapped them against his lower lip. ‘And what’s Aupry’s connection to Meredith?’

  I stole a quick glance at Jud. ‘Didn’t Jud tell you?’

  ‘Jud briefed me, of course, otherwise I wouldn’t have called in all my IOUs to lay hands on these tapes, but I’d really like to hear it from you.’

  So I explained about Skip and the Metro crash, his deathbed confession, and how I came into the possession of a certain Julius Garfinkel shopping bag full of letters and photos.

  ‘And your theory is? Humor me. I’m a reporter. I like to get things straight.’

  ‘Sometime before September seventh of this year, Skip, who I now know is Nick, stole some love letters from his mother’s home. I figure Nick reads the letters, does the math, and realizes, based on his birthday, that he has to be Zan’s son, conceived on or about New Year’s Eve 1986. He has no idea who Zan is, but naturally he wants to find out. He’s just moved to Baltimore, doesn’t know anybody, and he doesn’t want to use his mother’s high-profile attorneys because they might tell her what her son is up to, so he hooks up with a fly-by-night he saw advertising on late-night television.’

  ‘Always a good plan,’ Chandler said. ‘Like thinking you’ll get better service by picking up bimbos in bars rather than paying for high-end call girls.’

  ‘The Tiger Woods effect,’ Jud cut in.

  Chandler rolled his eyes, then said, not unkindly, ‘Wilson, do shut up!’

  ‘So, Nick meets with this lawyer, a guy named James Hoffner by the way, shows him the letters and photos, and Hoffner, to his credit, actually figures out who Zan is. He tells Nick, who decides to pay a call on the guy Hoffner tells him is his father to check it out for himself.’

  ‘Like you did.’

  ‘Exactly like I did. My research led me to the same conclusion, Mr Chandler.’ I glanced from Chandler to Jud and back again, silently requesting Chandler’s permission to go on.

  Face solemn, Chandler raised a hand like the Pope issuing a blessing.

  I took a deep breath. ‘That conclusion is that you are the Zan who wrote those letters.’

  Chandler remained silent. I could almost hear the wheels going around. I can neither confirm or deny . . .

  Meanwhile, Jud seemed to have stopped breathing. He sat frozen in his chair, mouth at half-mast.

  ‘But whether you are Zan or not doesn’t really matter,’ I hastened to add. ‘What matters is what Nick believed. He believed you might be his father, and so he called Lynx News and tried to get an appointment to see you.’

  ‘And Meredith Logan answered the phone.’

  ‘Right. Just like Jud did when I called, coming down to meet me when I showed up at Lynx asking to see you, pretty much on the same errand.’

  ‘And Nicholas murdered Meredith because?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she wouldn’t let him in to see you, he got angry, frustrated. He lashed out, lost control.’

  ‘So, how is this theory of hers holding up?’ Chandler asked, addressing this question to Jud.

  Jud aimed the remote. ‘Nick came into the library, that’s certain. Now, as I said, we’re trying to find out when and where he left it.’

  Chandler flapped a hand. ‘Carry on.’

  For the next ten minutes we watched library employees come and go through the D Street entrance at herky-jerky silent film speed. Finally, Nick showed up. When I shouted, ‘There he is!’ Jud paused the image, then clicked forward slowly, frame by frame.

  ‘That’s definitely Nick,’ I said, leaning forward. ‘And this time he is carrying a shopping bag. Can you make the image larger?’

  Jud twiddled a dial and zoomed in on the bag. As the image came into focus I could clearly read: Julius Garfinkel & Co.

  ‘That’s the bag,’ I said, staring meaningfully at Chandler. ‘That’s the one Nick had when he sat next to me on the Metro.’

  Next to me, Chandler stirred. ‘Pan over a bit, Jud, then zoom in on his face.’

  Jud did as he was asked.

  Chandler grunted, sighed. ‘So, let me get this straight. On the morning of September seventh around ten o’clock, a guy named Nick Aupry goes to the Library of Congress. Security cameras show him checking in at the Thomas Jefferson building, but he is not carrying anything but a notebook. Yet, when he left at three thirty – from the Madison building – he’s carrying a distinctive bag. How do you think that happened?’

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Jud beat me to it. ‘Either he left the building during the day, or he didn’t. If he left, say to have lunch, he could have picked the bag up then and brought it back in with him. On the other hand, if he didn’t leave the library complex at all between ten o’clock and three thirty, somebody must have given it to him.’

  I raised my hand. ‘Permission to speak?’

  Chandler smiled, nodded, so I continued. ‘My working theory is that Nick left the library, met Meredith, they got in an argument, he strangled her, fled, and got back to the library in time to catch the Metro.’

  ‘If he left and came back, it’d be on one of the tapes,’ Jud reasoned.

  Chandler pointed at Jud. ‘Put our people on it.’

  ‘Do you think Meredith had the package of letters?’ I asked. ‘That Nick took it from her after her killed her?’

  Chandler shook his head. ‘We’ve been over that footage a hundred times. When Meredith left our building, the only thing she carried was her handbag.’

  ‘But if the tapes show that Nick didn’t leave the library all day,’ I pointed out, ‘then he couldn’t have killed Meredith. Somebody else did.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, either someone on the library staff gave him that bag, or somebody brought the bag in from outside the library,’ Chandler speculated. ‘Jud, have them check the videos for that, too.’

  ‘That could take hours,’ I said. ‘Days. Do I get to hang around?’

  Jud smiled. ‘We’ve got Mugspot.’

  I smiled at the name. ‘Facial recognition software?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll check with our experts, but if it can be programmed to look for a certain face, maybe they can tell it to look for a face that’s square and has Julius Garfinkel written across its forehead.’

  Chandler stood. ‘Get on it, Jud, and call me when you have something.’

  Jud snapped to attention. ‘Right away, Mr Chandler.’

  After Jud left carrying the disks, Chandler turned to me. ‘I’m grateful that you came to us first with this information, Mrs Ives. Meredith was dedicated to her job, perhaps too dedicated. If you’re right, she died in an effort, however misguided, to protect me, to keep someone from tarnishing my reputation. I’m having a tough time dealing with that.’

  It didn’t escape my attention that Chandler, smooth-tongued and unflappable, had never admitted to being Zan. He held out his hand. ‘We’ll be in touch, you can be certain of that.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the information?’ I asked as he accompanied me down the hall.

  He hesitated in front of an oversized painting of the Washington Monument, a fitting backdrop, I thought, for a television journalist. Pain lined his face, as if he were about to report on a plane crash, or the death of a president. All he needed was a microphone. ‘We’ll check out the videos, all of them. If Aupry looks like our guy, we contact the police. That goes for Hoffner, too.’

  Into the awkward silence that followed, I said, ‘And then?’

  Chandler seemed to be studying his reflection in his shoes. Without raising his head, he said. ‘Then? Then we break the story.’

  The answer came sooner than I expected. I was still in Union Station, down in the crowded food court, polishing off my creamy chicken at Pasta T’Go-Go when Jud texted my cell phone.

  ‘Got it. C U soon?’

  ‘In 10,’ I texted back.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jud and I were back in the screening room sitting in front of the large television screen.

  ‘The suspense is killi
ng me,’ I said, as Jud cued up the video. ‘Can’t you give me a hint?’

  Jud smiled enigmatically, aimed, and pressed play.

  As I watched, library patrons came and went, waddling through the checkpoint at high speed like cartoon penguins. ‘There!’ Jud said, freezing the frame on the Garfinkel’s bag as it made its way slowly along the conveyor belt and disappeared into the X-ray machine.

  I squinted at the faces passing through the checkpoint, but the images were grainy. ‘Who brought it there?’

  ‘I’m hoping you can tell me.’ Jud diddled with the controls, the camera pulled back, panned, and refocused as somebody picked up the bag at the end of the line. Jud zoomed in on the man’s face.

  It was James Hoffner.

  ‘My God,’ I said. ‘That’s definitely Aupry’s lawyer.’

  Jud grinned, fast-forwarding – five, ten, fifteen minutes. ‘And here’s our bad boy again,’ he said, freezing the action. ‘At two fifteen, leaving the way he came. And this time, he’s not carrying the bag.’

  I didn’t know that there was a telephone in the room until it warbled like an ill-tempered turkey. Scowling in annoyance at the interruption, Jud punched the speaker button. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you seen John?’ a woman’s voice inquired.

  ‘He’s taping right now.’ Jud checked his watch. ‘Should be finished in about ten minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, Jud.’

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked after the woman hung up.

  ‘Doro. Dorothea Chandler. Mrs John C. She who must be obeyed.’

  ‘I take it you don’t get along.’

  Jud shrugged. ‘She’s OK, but it drives me crazy how she’s always popping in, fussing about one thing or another. The latest bee in the Missus’s bonnet is her Christmas fundraiser. They’re having an auction, and she’s twisting John’s arm to sign on as auctioneer. John told me he’d rather have a root canal, but short of starting a war in a third world country so he can jet over there to cover it, I think he’s going once, going twice, doomed!’

  ‘Where is this event taking place?’

  ‘At her club.’