Dutch Blue Error

by William G. Tapply

  “Um-hm.”

  “And he called me.” I paused. Zerk said nothing. “Query: Why did he call me? Why me?”

  “You asking me for an answer?”

  “Hell, yes, I’m asking you for an answer.”

  “Okay,” said Zerk. “Then, hypothesis: You’re the first lawyer he could think of. He had a legal problem. Accused of a crime, threatened with a lawsuit, whatever. Wanted advice, wanted counsel.”

  “Hm,” I said doubtfully. “Could be.”

  “You think it had something to do with the stamp, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Yeah, it’s a good hypothesis.”

  “It is,” nodded Zerk. “Then the question becomes: What did it have to do with the stamp?”

  “The stamp’s missing. Albert found it.”

  “Therefore?”

  I shrugged. “Therefore, he called me. To tell me. Shit, Zerk, I don’t know.”

  “Keep a couple things in mind,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like when he called you he was scared. That, in retrospect, seems very reasonable because, in the second place, somebody assassinated him.”

  “If Albert had the stamp…”

  “Yes.”

  “Somebody murdered him for it,” I finished. “Possibly the same guy who killed Shaughnessey.”

  “Very possibly.”

  “And now that person has the stamp.”

  “In which case,” said Zerk, “we should be hearing from him.”

  “Which explains why he didn’t kill me.”

  “I was wondering about that one,” said Zerk.

  “Okay,” I said. “This is good. Let’s keep going. There are other possibilities. Begin with different premises. Like, if it had to do with the stamp, but if Albert didn’t have it. Where does that lead us?”

  Zerk was silent for so long I didn’t think he had heard me. By now it was completely dark outside, except for the faint glow of city lights that lent texture to the blackness. Finally he said, “If Albert didn’t have the stamp, but someone thought he did, they might, you know, torture him, threaten him…”

  “Sure. And then, when they’re done, kill him.”

  “Which leaves unanswered the question of why you weren’t tortured, maybe. And then killed,” he added with what I thought was unnecessary candor.

  “They didn’t have time. They heard you coming,” I said.

  “In which case you’ll be hearing from them. Or him, or whoever.”

  “Either way. Oh, Jesus,” I said, the image of the little black hole in the back of Albert’s head flashing in my brain again.

  “There’s another possibility,” said Zerk slowly. “Suppose all of this had something else to do with the stamp—something based on a premise other than the one which holds that Albert had the stamp, or knew of its whereabouts.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the guy who killed Albert already had the stamp, and wanted Albert to authenticate it, and then had to shoot him to protect his secret.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense,” I said. “Whoever had the stamp has stolen property, and, most likely, a murder on his hands already. He’d lay low for a while. Besides, the authentication of a dead man isn’t much good. I wouldn’t think. It could never be used.”

  I heard Zerk yawn. “Yeah, maybe. This is better than patent law. But it’s tiring. Think there’s another Schlitz in the fridge?”

  “Help yourself,” I said. “I’ll have one, if there’s two in there.”

  He returned in a moment and handed me a can. I placed it against my forehead. The shock of its icy touch made me sit up a little straighter. Zerk took his seat again and lifted his feet up onto the railing beside mine.

  “One thing’s for sure,” I said, after we had sat in silence for a while, sipping our beers.

  “What’s that?” said Zerk lazily.

  “We’ve got to go to the police.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, my friend, we are lawyers, and a crime has been committed, and it’s our obligation to justice to go to the police. That’s why. And you know it.”

  “But…”

  “Never mind. This is fundamental. We may be considered suspects, ever think of that? Hell, I left the scene of a crime. So did you. And you are the one who removed me from that scene. The cops right now are probably looking for a big black guy who dragged a half-conscious white guy out of the museum at or about the estimated time of the crime. Our fingerprints are probably all over the place. The door knob. The light switch.” I tilted my head back and took a long swig of Schlitz. “So if you don’t like the lawyers doing their duty to the cause of justice argument, try some of those others. Self-preservation.”

  “Sure. Okay. But…”

  “But, nothing, damn it. We go. First thing in the morning. We should go tonight, actually. But I feel shitty. We go together and we tell them everything.”

  “Even about the stamp?”

  “Everything. Of course. We tell the truth. We leave out nothing. Understood?”

  “Sure,” he said softly. “Understood.”

  We finished our beers in the damp, dark silence, high above the Boston Harbor. The night air caressed my thighs under my bathrobe. I thought of Deborah Martinelli. Then I thought of her father. Then Albert. Victims. Two men had been murdered now. I wondered if there was any way any of it could possibly be unrelated to the Dutch Blue Error.

  8

  “I BEEN UP ALL night with this fuckin’ thing. Why the hell they can’t find bodies at the beginning of my shift, I don’t know. It’s always at the end. Or else in the middle of the goddam night, and they gotta call me at home. You sure you don’t want some of this coffee? I mean, it’s terrible—pure mud, you can feel it rot your stomach. I don’t blame you.” Lt. Cornelius Mullins, Homicide Inspector for the Cambridge police, ran his fingers through his thinning black hair. His necktie was askew, and his collar hung open. His shirtsleeves were rolled halfway up his thick forearms.

  He rubbed the palm of his hand across his mouth, as if he were trying to wipe off the black stubble of his beard. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Okay. So what do you know about this thing, anyway, Mr. Coyne?”

  I summarized for him the events of the previous day—Albert Dopplinger’s telephone call, my arrival at the museum, Albert’s dead body, the attack on my person, and my rescue at the hands of Zerk. Mullins kept his eyes closed while I related my tale. He slouched in his chair, his head back. He looked as if he were sleeping.

  “How long did you say it took you to get there?” he asked, his eyes still shut.

  “To the museum? An hour, at least. There was a big traffic jam on the B.U. Bridge.”

  “So you arrived at what time?”

  “I told you. Around three, I’d guess. I didn’t check.”

  “And what time did the deceased call you?”

  I flapped my hands. “Little before two, I’d say. Zerk could probably tell you.”

  Mullins opened his eyes. “I imagine they’re asking him,” he said.

  They had separated me and Zerk as soon as we told them why we were there. Inspector Mullins had led me down a long corridor lined with doors with opaque glass windows. Two uniformed policemen had taken Zerk in another direction.

  “Why did he call you?”

  “Albert? I don’t know. He didn’t say. Just, like I told you, that it was urgent.”

  “Was that his word?”

  “He said he wanted me to hurry. His tone was urgent.”

  “So what do you think was urgent, that he should call you? You said you hardly knew him.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he say he wanted a lawyer?”

  “No. Not like that.”

  “And you’d only met him once.”

  “Right. And we talked on the phone once, too.”

  “So why did he call you?”

  I shook my head. “I told
you, I have no idea.”

  “What about this stamp you mentioned? Did it have something to do with the stamp?”

  “Look, Inspector,” I said. “I’m a lawyer, and I know you have to do what you’re doing. But I told you everything. I didn’t need to come here. But I did. Voluntarily. I don’t appreciate being treated like a suspect. If I can help you in any way, I’d be happy to. But don’t interrogate me.” I paused. He was leaning forward, looking at me, his elbows on his desk and his chin resting on his fists. “I’m not a suspect, am I?”

  He snorted through his nose. “Of course you are. You know that. Everybody is. Don’t worry about it. What I’m trying to do is, I’m trying to see if there’s something you forgot to mention, see, something you didn’t tell me that’s clanking around up there in your head somewhere, in your subconscious, that maybe I can help you to remember if I ask the right questions. And, sure, if you start contradicting yourself, then I’ll start wondering about you. So. What about this stamp, now?”

  “I don’t know if this had anything to do with the stamp or not, except that was the only context I knew Dopplinger in. As I told you, the man who owned the stamp was murdered, and no one seems to know where it is. I don’t see how Albert Dopplinger fits into that. Except he knew about the stamp, and he was murdered, too. I surely don’t see how I fit into that, except that I’d like to buy the stamp for my client.”

  Mullins rested his forehead in a bowl he made with his two hands. It didn’t look like he’d be able to finish our interview. Without looking up at me, he said, “Why did your friend go to the museum?”

  “Zerk? I don’t know. I guess he felt uneasy.”

  “Uneasy?”

  “Yes. He answered the phone when Dopplinger called.”

  “Does Mr. Garrett always follow you when you visit distraught clients?”

  “Dopplinger wasn’t my client.”

  “Has Garrett ever followed you like that before?”

  “I never had a phone call like that before.”

  Mullins’s head snapped up. “Has he?”

  I frowned at him. “No. He’s never followed me like that before. But…”

  “How long would you figure it’d take him to get to the museum by subway?”

  “Oh, half an hour, maybe. Depends.”

  “And by taxi?”

  “If he went by the B. U. Bridge, over an hour, yesterday. Usually fifteen, twenty minutes. Look, Inspector, what’re you suggesting here?”

  “Nothing,” said Mullins. “What do you think I’m suggesting?”

  “All these implications about Zerk. He was worried about me. He came and rescued me after whoever was in that laboratory gassed me. He came here voluntarily, just like I did. He’s an attorney. You’re trying to make him into a suspect.”

  Mullins smiled tiredly. “I told you, Mr. Coyne. Everybody’s a suspect. Okay. I’ll level with you. We have a witness who said he saw a black man who fits Mr. Garrett’s description lurking around the downstairs area in the museum about the time the murder would have occurred. Before three. Before you got there. I’m betting our witness can identify your friend. You already told me that Garrett knew where Dopplinger’s lab was located. He could have buzzed over there way ahead of you. Hell, Mr. Coyne, it could’ve been Garrett who chloroformed you, for all you know. He might’ve been in that room all the time.”

  “Zerk? Come on. That’s ridiculous.”

  Mullins shrugged.

  “Is he being held?”

  “He came here like you did. To help the police investigate an apparent homicide. That’s all.”

  “Because if he is, he’s got the right to have an attorney present. I want to be present.”

  “He’s just telling his story, Mr. Coyne. Just like you. He’ll be informed of his rights if it’s necessary.” Mullins heaved himself to his feet and lumbered to the coffee pot which sat on a hot plate in the corner of his office.” Sure you don’t want some of this? Naw. You don’t. Vile stuff. Can you think of anything else?”

  I thought for a moment. “What about Albert’s notebook? Anything in it?”

  “Notebook?”

  “He carried a notebook in his pants pocket.”

  Mullins shrugged. “We didn’t find any notebook.”

  I sighed. “Probably in his office or something.”

  Mullins leaned forward and peered at me. “You feeling okay today?”

  “A little shaky,” I admitted. “What’d you say you thought it was? Chloroform?”

  “I imagine so. They—he, whoever shot Dopplinger—chloroformed him first. Damned if I know why. We found a saturated rag in the room. Place was full of chemicals, of course. You know anybody who owns a twenty-two caliber weapon, Mr. Coyne?”

  Mullins knocked me off balance with his abrupt change of subject. I couldn’t tell if he was being careless and unstructured, or if he was a clever interrogator. I was beginning to suspect the latter.

  “No,” I answered. “No—wait a minute. Look, I don’t know many people who own guns, period. I have one, but I keep it in my safe in my office. It’s a thirty-eight,” I added quickly. “But this man who died—Sullivan—Shaughnessey, that is—he had a twenty-two. Or at least he said he had one. Is that what killed Dopplinger? A twenty-two?”

  “Evidently. So it appears. That’s preliminary. They’ll dig the slug out of his head and know for sure. Just by looking at the entry wound, they can pretty much tell.”

  “I would have said it was bigger,” I said. “A thirty-two, maybe.”

  “You examined lots of bullet holes in people’s heads, Mr. Coyne?”

  I smiled. “No, not many.”

  “So Shaughnessey had a twenty-two, you say.” Mullins seemed to ruminate on this piece of information. He looked as if he was chewing up his tongue. “Well, it’s doubtful Shaughnessey killed Dopplinger, now, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “Doubtful.”

  “I’d like to come up with Shaughnessey’s gun.”

  “Maybe I can get it for you,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “I know his daughter. Shaughnessey’s daughter.”

  “Safe to say, Mr. Coyne, that if she can put her hands on that gun, it won’t be the one we’re looking for. Still, I’d appreciate it. Mr. Garrett have a gun?”

  “No. I don’t know. Not that I know of.” I tapped out a Winston and lit it. “You’re on the wrong track. Zerk didn’t do this.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he did. I just don’t think he didn’t, yet, either.”

  I nodded. Mullins rolled his shoulders, groaned, and began to rummage among the chaotic mess of papers on his desk. Somewhere among them he found a half-smoked cigar. He crammed it into his mouth and lit it. The little office was immediately filled with the smell of burning peat. “Nothing like a good cigar,” sighed Mullins.

  “It’s because he’s black, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Who? Mr. Garrett? Why, yes, I guess in this case it is.”

  “What do you mean, in this case?”

  “In this case, Mr. Coyne, our witness saw a black man. If your friend Mr. Garrett was white, we probably wouldn’t give him a second thought.”

  “I explained to you why Zerk was seen there.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know.” Mullins blew a big cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “Look, we appreciate your coming here, Mr. Coyne. Saved us a lot of trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Sure. Trying to identify you and bring you in and all.”

  “Me?”

  “Oh, sure. We got several witnesses saw you. Didn’t I mention that?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, well. You’ll be around if we need you, huh?”

  “You mean, don’t leave town.”

  Mullins waved his hand. “Nah. You know. Something might come up. I might think of something to ask you. That’s all.”

  I took a business card from my wallet and handed it to him. He glanced at it and flipped it onto his desk, where I figured it would be d
evoured by the chaos of papers there. “You can go, Mr. Coyne,” he said. I stood. Mullins remained seated. I leaned across his desk to shake his hand. His grip was limp. He rubbed his eyes with his wrist. “Christ, I gotta get some sleep. Some racket this is. I shoulda been a lawyer.” He waved me out with the back of his hand. “Be in touch. Close that door behind you, will you?”

  I went back down the long corridor to the open area by the front desk. I couldn’t find Zerk. After several minutes of waiting for the desk officer to get off the telephone, I managed to learn that Zerk was still being questioned, and, no, he wasn’t being held, why don’t you have a seat if you want to wait for him.

  The longer I waited, the angrier I became. I imagined they were grilling him. I had about decided to demand that I see him when he appeared. One look at his face told me to move him fast. I grabbed his arm and pulled him outside the station.

  “Mothafucks,” he muttered. “Oh, those mothafucks!”

  “Take it easy,” I said. “Let’s get some coffee.”

  He allowed me to steer him to a little coffee shop around the corner from the police station. We sat across from each other in a booth. A sleepy waitress brought coffee without being asked. “Anythin’ else, boys?”

  “Just the coffee,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Bastards,” spat Zerk. “They want to put me in a lineup.”

  “They didn’t, did they?”

  “No. They want me to come back.”

  “Not without your lawyer, you won’t.”

  “My lawyer?”

  “Me.”

  He stared at me for a moment, then lowered his eyes to his coffee cup. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Honkie law. Maybe I should get myself a black lawyer.”

  I thrust my face across the table at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Zerk glared at me. “They puttin’ you in a lineup? Tell me something. Did they call you ‘boy’ in there? They ask you if you had a record? They tell you they were going to check you out in Akron? They ask you where you were at such and so time, if you owned a gun? They question your sexual preferences, Counselor?”

  I shook my head. “Mostly, no,” I said softly. “It was nothing like that, Zerk. Shit, friend, I’m truly sorry.”