Haze

by E. R. Torre

  “Is that any crazier a theory than thinking John Robinson was actually murdered?”

  There was no answer to that. Chandler shook his head and took a sip of his coffee. He cradled the cup in his massive hands.

  “I’ll make it real clear, Mr. Towne: In the past few months I’ve had at least two dozen people like Mr. Walker confront me on the street or via anonymous and sometimes not so anonymous mail with some silly ‘proof’ of my guilt in Robinson’s death. Believe it or not, this represents a considerable drop in the level of harassment I’ve taken compared to the past couple of years. I suppose time marches on and most normal people, after a fashion, let these things go. But not Karl Walker. Would it surprise you if I said he was well known around here? He came by at least three, sometimes four times each year and, unlike the others, didn’t show any signs of slowing down.

  “Now imagine putting up with this bullshit year after year. You’re tired of all those people and all their innuendoes. Sick and tired. Most are gone but some, like Karl, look like they’ll bother you to the end of time and, guess what, here he is, back in town yet again. And once again he’s on your case and you’ve had it."

  "You make it sound like Karl deserved what he got.”

  “Then you’re reading me wrong,” Chandler said. “Karl was a goof. A very annoying goof, but a goof nonetheless. He pressed too much, but there were ways, legal ways, to deal with people like him. You thought Karl’s death proved Robinson was also killed. I’m telling you that there might have been another, even more valid reason.”

  He paused and shook his head.

  “It’s my experience that almost everyone is capable of committing murder, with the right motivation.”

  Sheriff Chandler was right. He covered all the bases. Almost.

  "What about the gun they found on Robinson's body?"

  Chandler shot forward in his chair. His movement was violent and I reflexively jerked back.

  "What?" he practically screamed.

  "His gun. He had a gun on him, didn't he?"

  “Who told you—” Chandler stopped in mid-sentence and shook his head. There was a weariness and disappointment in his voice. “Karl told you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  Sheriff Chandler nodded, as if recognizing some ultimate truth.

  "You are to keep that information to yourself, Mr. Towne, understand?"

  I nodded. Sheriff Chandler rose from behind his desk and walked to the corner of the room. He stared out the window and at the snowy parking lot. As he did, he rubbed the back of his head.

  "Shit," he muttered, his voice barely audible.

  "Why didn't you release that information?"

  “Because it wasn’t pertinent to the ruling on his death,” he said. He turned and looked at me as if I wasn’t really there.

  "It had to raise some questions," I said.

  The Sheriff bit his upper lip.

  "Stick around until I tell you otherwise."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After recording my formal statement, I was let loose. No one offered me a ride back to the Inn, so I went there on foot. The police cars and technicians were still present, though in smaller numbers. Those that remained were in the process of finishing their examination of the crime scene. Karl’s body was long gone. All that was left of him was a faded red blot in the snow. A dozen or so locals stood just outside the parking lot and on the sidewalk. They watched the proceedings with great interest. I pushed through them and around the parking lot and, finally, to the Inn. At the entry, a police officer I didn’t recognize nonetheless recognized me and motioned me in.

  Mrs. Borg sat by the window like some classic Roman statue. She was virtually in the same place I left her a couple of hours before and barely turned when I entered the lobby.

  "Are you feeling better now, dear?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  “Such a dreadful thing,” she said. “Mr. Walker seemed like such a nice boy. Like you.”

  "You didn't hear the gunshot?"

  "No. Is it true he was shot…in the face? That he died instantly?"

  “Yes. How could you not hear the shot?"

  "It must have happened when that storm passed through,” Mrs. Borg said.

  I recalled the rumbling of thunder within the theatre and how the electricity nearly went out. It must have been a hell of a storm.

  “Of course, I wasn’t in the lobby the whole day,” she continued and pointed to a closed door behind her. “I could have been out back."

  I nodded.

  "I'm going upstairs," I said. I walked away from her.

  She offered no reply.

  There was crime scene tape plastered across the door leading to Karl’s room. Sticky black dust formed an ugly stain around the frame and handle. There was no escape from reminders of what happened to Karl. I walked past his door and to mine.

  When I got inside the room, it looked different. The cleaning lady, if this place had one beyond Mrs. Borg, made the bed and vacuumed the carpet floor. The closet door was open and my suitcase was within. It was turned at an odd angle and not the way I left it.

  I headed to the closet and pulled it out. When I opened it, I realized someone had gone through it. The search was thorough yet subtle. Whoever did the search put almost everything back the way it was. Unfortunately, they left my shaving cream and toothbrush bag buried below a pair of pants, when I distinctly recalled leaving them on top.

  I worried that the maid, or perhaps even Mrs. Borg, searched through my belongings for something to steal. But no, everything was there. A darker suspicion emerged.

  Why was it necessary to go to the Police Station and deliver that formal statement? Was it possible the police used my manufactured absence to engage in a little reconnaissance work? I knew Karl and I was the one who found his body. Even with a solid alibi, I was an obvious suspect. Had the police found anything incriminating, the Sheriff or those in his staff would have kept me at the station under some excuse or another while the proper search warrants were obtained. In the meantime, there was no harm in looking, right?

  “You’ve been watching too much TV,” I said and laughed. In the empty room, the laugh sounded as phony as it was.

  I closed the suitcase and it back in the closet, the way I had left it in the morning. I then went to the bed and lay down. I was exhausted but not tired. I recalled the very first time I met Karl, this very morning and a lifetime ago. I could picture his disheveled appearance, his tiny eyes.

  Then I remembered his bloody death mask. There was no trace of his glasses. Could the gunshot have disintegrated them into nothing with the force of impact?

  Other wild thoughts raced through my head until that by now familiar voice from within urged me, begged me to leave Viktor.

  What the hell are you still doing here?

  I didn't belong and I wasn’t needed. The town had its dark secrets and Karl searched for, and no doubt, found them. Instead of enlightenment, he ultimately found death.

  I sat up in the bed. The sound of the mattress' worn springs groaned under my weight. I got to my feet and walked to the window. Viktor's Mountain lay, as she always had, in the distance. In the dim evening light she was again turning into something dark and menacing.

  "How did John Robinson die?" I asked the mountain. There was no answer.

  I looked at my watch.

  7:45.

  Perhaps I will leave town, I thought. Right after the party.

  I headed to the theater a few minutes past eight. By then the technicians were done with the parking lot and all traces of Karl’s body, including the bloody snow and his car, were gone. For some reason, this made me sad. Robinson’s death brought him a perverse immortality even six years later. Karl’s death, on the other hand, was already scrubbed away.

  When I stepped into the theater's warm lights a few minutes later, I was relieved. The place was a lighthouse in the otherwise dark street. A hundred small lights flashed on and off in a smooth syn
chronized motion on the marquee. Its center, which ordinarily displayed the movies playing within, was empty. The film festival was officially over. The only people allowed inside were invited guests.

  I hurried to the door, eager to step out of the cold.

  A man at the entrance checked my name on the list of invited people. The list was short and took up only a single page. My name was the very last one on that list and was written in pencil, a last minute addition.

  "Right there," I said, pointing to my name.

  The old man nodded and flashed me a smile that made him look like an animated skeleton. Despite the smile, his eyes were empty of any true emotions.

  "Enjoy the party," he said. By the time the words left his mouth he was already looking past me and at whoever was coming in next.

  I walked into the lobby of the theater. The concession stand was occupied by a middle-aged lady dressed in a shiny red body suit. She handed out a drink to someone I instantly recognized: Lewis Sinclair.

  I was tempted to approach him, but decided against it. What was there we could we possibly talk about? Instead, I turned away and surveyed the room. There were close to a dozen people milling about the lobby, including Sheriff Chandler and the deputy who was with him back at the Inn. They stuck together in a corner, quietly talked to each other. Toward the rear of the room was Nick Jones, the ski patrolman who found me after my fall on the slopes. He was talking to Judith Robinson.

  I made my way toward them, but Sheriff Chandler intercepted me.

  "Mr. Towne," the Sheriff said. The smile on his face was like a jeweled sword, decorative yet deadly. "I should have known you’d be invited to the party."

  I gazed beyond the Sheriff and at Judith. She continued talking to Nick Jones, oblivious to my arrival.

  "You’ll have plenty of time to filter around,” the Sheriff said. “Later.”

  Sheriff Chandler escorted me a few steps before stopping. An elderly couple, perhaps the same ones that offered me aid by the phantom pharmacy, stopped him.

  “We heard about what happened at the Inn,” the lady said.

  “It’s so horrible,” the man offered. “Who was killed?”

  The couple leaned in close, hoping to get more information, but Sheriff Chandler was in no mood to gossip.

  “It’s too early to give out any information,” he said. His voice was smooth, comforting, yet firm. “Needless to say, my boys are on the case. We expect an arrest real soon.”

  “You’re a good boy,” the lady said. She turned away from the Sheriff and noticed me for the first time. She offered a silent nod before taking her husband by the arm and walking away.

  “Charming couple,” I said.

  “What do you know?” Chandler growled and motioned me forward. Inside, I felt a rising anger. We came to a stop in front of the deputy.

  “This is Craig Livingstone, one of my finest officers,” Chandler said. “He's also my son-in-law."

  Nepotism was alive and well even in the high country. Livingstone extended his hand and, despite my anger, I shook it.

  “Son in law?” I said. A light went off deep within my mind. If the Sheriff needed someone to do something illegal, like, say, search through a suspect’s room without obtaining a proper warrant, who better than a family member?

  "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Towne," Livingstone said. His smile was more genuine than the Sheriff's. Around us the conversation grew louder and was punctuated with laughs and giggles. Sheriff Chandler leaned in close and said:

  "We asked Judith about the film you said you saw with her."

  The anger within grew to volcanic levels. Deputy Livingstone read it in my face and stepped between the Sheriff and I.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Livingstone said. “We have to check everything. It’s part of the job.”

  "Like searching through my room?"

  Even as the words erupted from my mouth, I wanted to take them back. Sheriff Chandler frowned and turned to face his Deputy-In-Law. The Deputy shook his head and shrugged.

  “Your room was searched?” Sheriff Chandler asked.

  “Very neatly. All I’ve got is the one suitcase. Someone went through it but didn’t put everything back the way it was.”

  “We didn’t do that,” Livingstone said. His words were sincere but hinted at other possibilities.

  “The cleaning lady?”

  “The Green Manor Inn doesn’t have one,” Chandler said.

  I drew a sharp breath.

  “Mrs. Borg?”

  We were silent for a few seconds.

  “She’s done this before, hasn’t she?”

  “Maybe you left the suitcase open, and she tidied up,” Livingstone said. “If there’s anything missing—”

  “No,” I interrupted. Mystery solved. There were better things to do than harass a nosy old lady. “Look, forget it.”

  Chandler and Livingstone nodded. On at least this point we could all agree. More people showed up and the lobby was becoming crowded. So many faces, so many people who probably knew John Robinson personally. How many of them did Karl know? How many of them did he suspect in Robinson’s death?

  "You didn't come here just to check up on where Judith and I were at the time of Karl's death. You think someone here might have done it."

  The Sheriff's eyes narrowed.

  "Hold your tongue," Chandler said. He talked down at me as if I were a misbehaving child.

  "I will," I said. "Now that I’m in the clear, am I free to leave town?”

  “Anytime you’d like,” the Sheriff said. “The sooner the better.”

  Sheriff Chandler walked away, leaving Deputy Livingstone and me alone.

  "He’s not a bad guy,” Livingstone said. “He -our town- isn’t used to all this.”

  “Who is?”

  “You got a point there.”

  We stood together in silence and watched the crowd for a few seconds. The guests mostly kept to themselves, though now and again a few of them stole a look our way. The focus of their conversation, I imagined, was as much on John Robinson and his career as it was about the death of Karl Walker.

  “How well did you know him?" Livingstone asked.

  “Karl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I already told the Sheriff this.”

  “Humor me,” Livingstone said. “Please.”

  “He was my neighbor at the Inn. I didn't get to know him until a few hours before he was killed. We bumped into each other at the Inn and again at Viktor's mountain. He thought I was one of those fans looking into John Robinson's death."

  "You aren't?"

  "I came here to ski,” I said it like it was my mantra. Even if I no longer believed it.

  After leaving Deputy Livingstone, I filtered through the building crowd but was unable to find Judith. Changing course, I headed to the concession stand and picked up a drink. I took up space at the opposite end of the room, as far away from Sheriff Chandler and Deputy Livingstone as I could get.

  "The party can’t be all that bad," came a voice from my right side.

  I turned and found Judith beside me. Her face was luminous.

  "It’s getting better by the second."

  She smiled and gave me a quick kiss. She then stood back and tilted her head down.

  "Enjoy it while you can. It will be the last one."

  “Last?”

  "Everyone in Viktor, and a sizeable group from Hollywood, used to show up to this event. The Hollywood people were the first to disappear. Most of the citizens of Viktor have also moved on. Pretty soon, the legacy of John Robinson will be left to those who watch the late show on TV."

  “It can’t be all that bad. Once the whole hysteria over his death fades away—”

  I stopped. Nick Jones made his way toward us was Nick Jones. He wasn’t happy to see me with Judith.

  "Mr. Towne," he said. His voice was curt. "How are you feeling?"

  "Much better," I replied, though I doubt he cared.

  "Will
you excuse us?" Nick said. He grabbed Judith by her upper arm.

  I took a step toward Judith, but she stopped me.

  "We'll be right back," she said. Her eyes told me all I needed to know.

  This doesn't involve you.

  I relented and eased back to my spot on the floor.

  "See you when you’re done with him," I said. The statement was meant to further inflame Nick Jones. If he heard, he didn’t react. Judith, on the other hand, tensed up. She gave me a scolding look and I regretted making such a childish remark.

  The two of them walked to the other side of the room, just a few feet away from the Sheriff and Livingstone. Their conversation started silently. Nick Jones held Judith’s hands in his, and she allowed it. After a while, I couldn't take it. I turned away and was surprised to find Lewis Sinclair standing next to me. He was holding a glass of Champaign.

  "Too bad," he said. "I was hoping to talk to her as well."

  "Mr. Sinclair," I said. I nervously extended my hand. "I saw you in Collision Course the other day.”

  “Ah,” he said and winked. “You were the other one.”

  “You did a great job in the film."

  Sinclair smiled. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, as if to get closer so he could tell me a great secret.

  "It was my last hurrah. I couldn't get another decent acting job after that, Mister…?”

  “Towne,” I said. “Robert Towne.”

  He shook my hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Towne. You see, that’s the big danger about acting. If you do your job really well in one type of role, there’s always the danger that studios can’t see you playing anything else. In the five or so years before playing the villain in Collision Course I was given all kinds of roles, except the one I really wanted: the leading man. After Collision Course, they wanted me to play the double crossing villain over and over again."

  “At least you had that.”

  “True,” Lewis said. “Fact is, back then I was young and very stupid. I thought that by refusing the roles they offered they’d eventually come around and offer me the jobs I wanted. That worked out really well, let me tell you. It’s true what they say, never bite the hand that feeds you."