Silent Witness

by Collin Wilcox

  “As far as I know,” Martelli answered, “he doesn’t have any playmates, up here. Not—” He hesitated. “Not now, anyhow—not since his mother died. Before that, before she died, Connie would gather up some kids from down the road, to swim and roast hot dogs, things like that. And sometimes she invited kids from the city, on weekends.”

  “Does he go to school here?”

  Martelli shook his head. “No. He goes to school in the city. It’s a fancy private school.”

  “Well,” Bernhardt said, “he probably has friends there, in the city.”

  “Yeah …”

  Bernhardt thrust his hands in the pockets of his jeans, rose on his toes, took a deep breath and surrendered to the radiance of the late summer afternoon: the sound of the birds, the smell of the sun-baked earth, the oaks and the pines, the narrow dirt road that bordered the vineyards. It was a road made for a boy walking barefoot, whistling in the sunshine. Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer—this was their kind of road, their kind of day.

  “Do you think it’ll work?” Martelli asked.

  “John and Janice, you mean?”

  “That—and everything.” Martelli hesitated, then decided to say, “Price. The murder. Everything.”

  “Do you think Price did it?” Bernhardt asked.

  “I doubt it. At least, I don’t think he planned to do it. He just doesn’t have the stones. But I think he knows more than he’s telling. Maybe a lot more.”

  Still staring at the barn, Bernhardt spoke quietly, as a confidant might speak: “What about you, Al? What’d you know?”

  Also staring at the barn, Martelli responded in kind: “I don’t know anything. I’m just going on configuration, as the horse breeders say. And Price’s configuration is the shits. He was a shitty husband, and he’s a shitty father. And, what’s more, he’s scared. Very scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  Martelli shrugged, then shook his head, signifying that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer the question.

  Thoughtfully, Bernhardt stepped to the side of the road, picked a long stem of wild grass, put the stalk between his teeth. How long had it been, since he’d sucked at a stalk of green grass? For years—decades—his life had been shaped by the concrete slabs of Manhattan and the cityscape of San Francisco, two compelling urban imperatives. But where had the flowers gone, and the smell of the dirt?

  “I think Price is seeing a tall blonde named Theo Stark,” Bernhardt said. “She drives a white Toyota Supra.”

  Martelli nodded. “I told you about her.”

  “You didn’t mention the Supra. Or her name, either.”

  “A white sports car, I said.”

  “That’s right,” Bernhardt said, remembering. “You did. Sorry.”

  “No problem.” Martelli began checking the tension on the bungee cords that secured the two fishing rods to the mountain bike.

  “Have you ever talked to John about what he saw the night his mother was killed?” Bernhardt asked.

  “No,” Martelli answered, “I haven’t. Not directly, in so many words. But that’s because he was so upset, at least at first. No way would I have asked him about that night. Then, later, it became—” He broke off, searching for the phrase. “It became habit, not to ask him what happened.”

  “You were present when Fowler interrogated him, that night.”

  Martelli shook his head. “I wasn’t present during the interrogation. I was in the house. But they split us up, to question us. Fowler took John into the kitchen, with his father. Afterward, they asked me to take John down to my place, while they carried Connie out.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  His dark eyes clouded by painful memory, Martelli nodded heavily. “Yeah, that’s what happened.”

  “He must’ve said something, then.”

  Martelli shook his head. “He said nothing. He was frozen. Absolutely frozen.”

  “How long was he there—at your house?”

  “All night. He went to sleep on the couch, almost immediately. Price came down about three o’clock, I guess it was, after everyone had left. If John had still been awake, he would’ve taken him back to the house. But we decided to let John sleep.”

  Bernhardt nodded. “That was wise, probably.” He looked at his watch. They’d been together for fifteen minutes, John and Janice. Almost certainly, more time would be required. “Listen—why don’t you go back to the winery and wait for John? When they’re finished talking, I’ll send him down to you.”

  “You think that’s best?” Martelli spoke speculatively, dubiously.

  “If Price should be looking for John—if he’s suspicious—you could head him off.”

  “How’d you get here? Into the vineyard?”

  “I cut the fence,” Bernhardt admitted. “I tried to cut the chain on the gate, but I couldn’t do it. I’ll try to wire the fence back together.”

  “Yeah …” Martelli frowned. Then, playing the part of the foreman: “I’ll take care of it, later.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry about the fence.”

  “No problem.” Martelli nodded, swung one leg over his mountain bike, pushed off. “Good luck. And be careful.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  4:40 P.M.

  BEFORE THE TELEPHONE’S FIRST ring had ended, Price lifted the receiver. “Yes?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Jesus—” He lowered his voice, looked down the hallway to the kitchen, where Maria was cooking dinner. “Jesus, I’ve been trying to get you.”

  “There’s another one, following me.”

  “Another one? Besides—” Instinctively, he lowered his voice. “Besides Bernhardt?”

  “Yes. He’s black. Very big, very black.”

  “Where are you?” As he spoke, he heard the sound of an engine, of tires on gravel. As the sounds registered, he felt his stomach contract. Someone was coming. Who? Who?

  “I’m in Calistoga.”

  Calistoga—the next town up the valley, barely ten miles away. Why had she come so close? Was it wise for her to be so close? If she was followed, was it wise?

  “Is he still following you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Outside, the engine-sound died. A car door slammed.

  “Someone’s here. Hold on, a minute.” He laid the phone aside, went to a front window. A Benedict County Sheriff’s white Ford sedan was parked behind his Porsche. Waddling as he walked, wearing a broad-brimmed felt hat with a gold insignia, Sheriff Fowler was rounding the rear of the white car. The car, too, had a gold insignia, painted on the door.

  Quickly, Price stepped away from the window, crossed to the phone.

  “Theo?”

  “Yes.”

  “The sheriff’s here. Fowler.”

  On the wooden steps, Fowler’s steps began to thud: a slow, heavy cadence. Was this the sound of doom? Destiny, in a broad-brimmed hat?

  “What’s he want?”

  “I don’t know. Listen—” He looked at his watch. Now the sound of his footsteps placed Fowler on the porch. In moments the doorbell would chime. Price took the telephone’s cradle from the hallway table and stepped around the corner, out of sight from the screened front door.

  But was it wise, to hide?

  Shouldn’t he pretend to be casual, just talking to a friend, when the chimes began?

  “Listen, you—you’d better call me in—” Once more, he looked at his watch. Quarter to five. “You’d better—why don’t you call me in—”

  The chimes sounded.

  “Call me in a half hour, forty minutes. After Fowler’s gone.” Why was he whispering? Why?

  “Okay.” A moment’s pause. Then: “Are you all right, Dennis?”

  In the intersecting hallway, Maria was clumping toward the front door. She was displeased that her preparations for dinner were interrupted. He could hear it in the way she walked.

  “I—call me back. Drive this way. Not here. Not to Saint Stephen. Near, though. Then ca
ll again.” He broke the connection, cradled the telephone, drew a deep, unsteady breath. Should he step across the hall to the dining room, take a quick drink before he—

  Voices. Fowler’s voice. Maria’s voice.

  Too late.

  He stepped quickly around the corner, replaced the phone on the table—feigned surprise: “Hello, Sheriff.”

  “Mr. Price—” Fowler nodded his boar’s head, his multiple chins disappearing in rings of fat. Without being told, Maria turned away, clumped back to the kitchen. Extending his hand, Price met the sheriff at the archway to the living room. Fowler’s grip was soft and flabby, disinterested.

  “Come in.” Price gestured to the living room. Grunting something unintelligible, Fowler entered the living room. Without hesitation, without being invited, he sat on the same leather couch John had been lying on the night Connie died.

  Was it intentional, that Fowler chose the leather couch? Part of a carefully calculated plan, the opening shot in the law’s campaign of harassment?

  In minutes, he would know. Somehow it had all come down to minutes now.

  Choosing a chair that faced the sheriff, he knew he must wait for the other man to speak first. It was essential, that he wait. The lord of the manor was his role. Fowler’s role was the serf, tugging at his forelock.

  “How’s your harvest looking, Mr. Price? Up to last year’s?”

  Ah—first the pleasantries, of course, the disarming little questions. Fowler was a devious man, a shrewd man. A man easy to underestimate. Dangerously easy to underestimate.

  “The chardonnay’s looking good. It’s too early to tell about the others.”

  “Everyone seems to be saying that. It’s a chardonnay year by the looks of it.”

  Price nodded. “I’d say so. Yes.”

  Gravely, Fowler nodded. The gesture signaled the end of the pleasantries.

  “I’ve just had a talk with Cliff Benson today, Mr. Price. He’s the county attorney, you know.”

  Price nodded.

  “And Cliff, Mr. Benson, seems to feel that we should be taking a fresh look at the circumstances surrounding your wife’s death.”

  “A—” Suddenly his throat closed. Then: “A fresh look?”

  “Right. Benson feels that maybe we missed something.”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “Well—” Fowler waved a pudgy hand in a short, thick-armed arc. “Well, maybe ‘missed something’ isn’t exactly the right wording. What I mean is—what Benson means—is that, with so much happening so fast, that night, we might’ve cut a few corners. Especially—” The sheriff paused, for emphasis. “Especially, we’re thinking of John. I mean, naturally, no one wanted to press the boy, under the circumstances. But when you think about it, with the exception of yourself, John was the only other person present in the house when the crime was committed—outside of the murderer, that is. So it’s possible he might’ve seen something—heard something, whatever—that could open a few doors for us. Wouldn’t you say so?”

  “Well, I—I—” Helplessly, he shook his head. Then: “No, I wouldn’t say so, as a matter of fact. I mean, John’s already told you everything he knows. He told you that night, when Connie was—” He broke off, shook his head, lapsed into sudden silence.

  “Well, that’s true. Everything I asked him, he answered, no question.” Fowler spoke equably. Fat-man-relaxed, hands folded across the tooled-leather equipment belt that girdled his enormous stomach, Fowler nodded genially, as if to encourage his victim. “But the thing is, you see, maybe there were some questions I didn’t ask. See what I mean?”

  “Well, that’s—yes, I see what you mean. But the thing is—the problem is—I don’t want John going back over that night. It’s been two months now—more than two months. And John’s just starting to come out of it, act like himself. So if you were to start questioning him again, well—” He spread his hands. “Well, it would be dangerous. Very dangerous, for John.”

  “Hmmm …” As if he were considering the point, Fowler frowned, nodded, squinted thoughtfully. Then: “Well, I certainly agree that it could be dangerous. So, of course, I’ll be careful when I talk to him. But the thing is—the bottom line—I’ve got to talk to John. See, investigations like this—capital crimes, like this—it’s pretty much required that we interrogate a witness at least twice. Like I said, at the crime scene, everyone’s groping in the dark, you might say, trying to figure out what happened. But then, later, you’ve got to go back, pick up the pieces, sort things out. In fact—” Fowler raised one hand from his stomach, gesturing. “In fact, I’ll be wanting to talk to you, too.” The pursed lips curved in a fatuous smile. “You won’t object, will you?”

  “Well—well, no. Certainly not. It’s just John, that I’m concerned about.”

  As if he sympathized, Fowler nodded. Then he shrugged, regretfully shaking his head. When he spoke, his eyes were cold, his voice was flat: “Sorry, Mr. Price, but it’s got to be done. Orders.” Fowler levered himself forward on the couch, ready to rise to his feet. “So if you’ll just find John for me, and give us fifteen or twenty minutes together, we’ll get it over and done with. That’s the best way, you know. Just do it. And they’re never as bad as you think they’ll be, these things. After all, I’m not going to browbeat John, nothing like that. We’ll just talk.”

  Just talk …

  In court, the lawyers just talked.

  The judge just talked, handing down the sentence.

  Would the executioner just talk, as he dropped the cyanide capsules in the acid beneath the chair?

  With great effort, he looked away from the other man’s eyes: pig eyes, sunk deep in a pig’s face.

  Should he refuse permission?

  The innocent talked willingly to the police. Only the guilty refused. The fifth amendment, refuge of scoundrels.

  His eyes, he realized, were fixed on the window that looked out on the broad green lawn, circled by the white gravel driveway.

  Less than an hour ago, John and Al had ridden down the driveway on their mountain bikes. Their fishing poles had been lashed to Martelli’s bike. He stole a glance at his wristwatch. Almost five. At six o’clock, promptly, Maria served dinner. If Martelli took John for an outing, on the acreage or off, Martelli never failed to have John home by six. It was a house rule.

  “I—” He began to shake his head. “I don’t think John’s here, right now. He—I haven’t seen him for hours.”

  “Where’d he go?” It was an innocent question—elaborately, fatuously innocent. “You must know where he is—don’t you?” The implication was clear: a “no” answer would admit to child neglect.

  “Well, I—yes, of course, I know. I mean, I know he’s on the property—the acreage. But I don’t know where, exactly.”

  “Is someone with him?”

  There it was: the make-or-break question, asked so softly, so guilelessly.

  “I—yes, of course someone’s with him. Al’s with him, I think. Al Martelli. But they could be anywhere. They might even’ve gone into town.”

  “I thought you said John stayed on the property.” The other man pretended elaborate puzzlement.

  “Well, not if he’s with Al. Then, of course, they go anywhere. But when he’s not with Al, then he has to stay on the—” Suddenly his voice died. Had he made a mistake, contradicted himself? Fowler’s face offered no clue, and a sharp, taut silence fell between them.

  Finally Fowler spoke: “Seems like we should be looking for Al, then. Wouldn’t you say?” Suddenly Fowler heaved himself to his feet. “I believe I’ll have a look around, see if I can find them. That all right?” Moving forward, Fowler stood over him, a mountainous presence, implacable, a menace in wrinkled, sweat-stained khaki.

  “Well, I—” Aware that his movements were uneven, out of phase, Price rose. They stood chest to chest, too close. “I’d better go with you.”

  “No need. I can find my way.”

  “No.”

  Fowler�
��s brow furrowed. “No?” He said it gently, regretfully. “No?”

  “I—I don’t want you to talk to John unless I’m there. I’m sorry, but that—that’s just the way it is.”

  “Ah—” Fowler nodded. Then he smiled. It was a strangely complacent smile. Cat-and-mouse content. “So that’s the way it is …” He nodded. Then, very softly: “I see.”

  “It—it’s just that—”

  Fowler raised a hand. “I can see how it is, Mr. Price. No need to explain.”

  He made no reply. Should he order Fowler off the property, pretend to outraged innocence? Experimentally, he cleared his throat, lifted his chin, stiffened his back. “It’s not a question of—”

  “Tell you what,” Fowler interrupted bruskly. “Why don’t the two of you—you and John—come in to the office tomorrow morning. Say, ten o’clock. I’ll talk to Benson in the meantime. How’s that sound?”

  “Ten o’clock—” He licked his lips. Then, anything to get rid of Fowler before Theo called again, he nodded. “Yes. Ten o’clock. That’ll be fine. Just fine.”

  4:50 P.M.

  “THAT’S THE HAYMOW, UP there—” John pointed. “The only way you can get up is that ladder—” He pointed again. “There used to be stairs, but they got rotten.” As he spoke, he was aware that his aunt was turning to follow his gesture. For as long as he could remember, his Aunt Janice had always listened when he talked to her, and looked where he pointed. Once he’d heard his parents talking about his Aunt Janice. “It’s a shame she hasn’t married,” his mother had said. “She was meant to have children.”

  Whenever he’d been with his mother and Aunt Janice, he always felt the friendship, how much they liked each other, his mother and his aunt. “She raised me,” his mother had said once. It had been a long time ago, maybe more than a year. They’d been on the beach at Santa Barbara, the three of them. Always, the beach at Santa Barbara had been one of his favorite places. His mother and his aunt had been talking about the things they’d done when they were his age. When she’d been seven, his mother had said, his Aunt Janice had been thirteen. And when his mother was ten, his aunt had been sixteen. That, they’d agreed, had been a big difference. Why, he’d asked, was the difference between ten and sixteen bigger than the difference between seven and thirteen? His aunt and his mother had smiled at each other, one of those special smiles between grown-ups, for special secrets.