Silent Witness

by Collin Wilcox

  “I—I guesso.”

  “Good. Now—” The man pointed to the tape recorder. “Now, that’s a tape recorder, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Now, I’ve talked to Miss Hale—your aunt. And I’ve talked to Mr. Bernhardt, too. And they both agree that they want me to talk to you about the events that transpired—” He broke off, frowned, started again: “About what happened on the night your mother died.” The man looked to Aunt Janice. “Is that correct, Miss Hale?”

  “That’s correct.” She spoke slowly; her face was serious. She stood against the far wall, arms folded. She was standing that way because she would say nothing more. Now it was the tall man and the tape recorder—and him. Just him.

  As, yes, the man touched the switch on the recorder. The tape began to revolve as the man, Mr. Benson, began to talk: “This is Clifford R. Benson, district attorney of Benedict County, California, at—” He looked at his watch. “At eleven-fifteen P.M. on the night of August thirtieth, of this year. I’m speaking from the residence of Dennis Price, of the Brookside Winery, in Benedict County. I’m interrogating John Price, age seven, the son of Dennis Price and the late Constance Hale Price. Witnessing this interrogation is Miss Janice Hale, sister of Constance and aunt of John. At the end of the interrogation, Miss Hale will make a short statement.

  “The subject of the interrogation is the events that transpired at this location on the night of June sixteenth, of this year, and the early morning hours of June seventeenth.”

  Mr. Benson touched the switch again, stopped the tape. For a moment Mr. Benson didn’t speak. As the long, silent moments passed, they sat motionless, looking at each other. Then, quietly, Mr. Benson said, “I know what you told Mr. Bernhardt and Miss Hale a few hours ago, John, while the three of you were in the barn and you observed your father and Theo Stark approaching. I want you to tell me exactly what you told them. If you do—if you tell me the whole story, then that’ll be the end of it. Everything will be out in the open after that. There won’t be any more lies.” Another long, solemn pause. Then, still quietly: “Do you understand, John?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “And will you tell me what happened? Everything that happened?” Could he do it—nod once more? Just once more?

  11:50 P.M.

  “OKAY,” FOWLER SAID, JERKING HIS chin grudgingly toward the phone. “You can use it, but just for a couple of minutes, no more.”

  “Is there a phone book?” Bernhardt asked. “I don’t know the number.”

  “Ask Information,” Fowler grunted.

  He got the number, heard the phone ring in his room at the Starlight Motel.

  “Yes?”

  For a moment he didn’t respond, but instead let the sound of her voice linger. How often, in the past hours, had he thought of her? How often had he longed to touch her, feel her touch him?

  “Paula, it’s Alan.”

  “Ah—” It was a soft exhalation: a lover’s wordless communion. “God, it’s midnight.”

  “I know. I couldn’t phone until now.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes …”

  “Janice? John?”

  “They’re fine. Every—” He broke off. Everyone on our team is fine, he’d been about to add. At the thought he privately smiled. Did it really come down to a sports metaphor? Was that the American way?

  “Listen, I can’t talk. I just wanted to check in. But you should go to sleep, Paula. This could take a long time.”

  “C.B. is here. Do you want him?”

  The wry, weary private smile returned. He could imagine C.B.’s frustration, left out of the action. At bottom, C.B. was a bone-knocker.

  “I don’t need him now. Has he got a room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell him to go to sleep.”

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  Bernhardt looked at Fowler, who was glowering. “I can’t talk to him now.” He turned his back on the sheriff, spoke softly: “Love you.”

  “Me too you.” A pause. Then, intimately: “Be sure and wake me, when you come in.”

  “Of that,” he said, “you may be absolutely certain. ’Bye.” Gently, he broke the connection.

  As he turned away from the phone, still with his back to Fowler, he saw Benson descending the central staircase that led down to the Price living room. For the last two hours, upstairs, Benson had been alternately interrogating both Dennis Price and John. Price had been held in the master bedroom, the original scene of the crime. John was in his own bedroom, with Janice.

  Now, plainly weary, Benson nodded to Bernhardt, then pointed to the front door. Bernhardt nodded in return, following Benson out to the broad verandah. The night was soft and balmy; the moon was big and full, the stars were bright overhead. And, yes, there was the chirping of countless crickets.

  “Come over here,” Benson said, gesturing to two redwood chairs placed in the deep shadows of the front porch. Wearily, Benson sank into one of the chairs while Bernhardt took the other. Benson glanced at the open front door. Then he leaned forward, cautiously lowering his voice: “I’ve just come from talking to John—in Miss Hale’s presence.”

  Bernhardt nodded. What came next, yet another sports metaphor, could be the ball game. If baseball was a game of inches, the game of life or death was a game of seconds—this second, and the next.

  “It’s all settled,” Benson said. In his voice, Bernhardt could plainly hear both weariness and satisfaction. The home team, then, had won.

  Won.

  Through the ache of a bone-numbing weariness Bernhardt felt a kind of lost, wan exultation.

  Won.

  “John told it to me the way he told it to you,” Benson was saying. “Or so Miss Hale states. So I put it to Mr. Price that his account of the events that transpired on the night of June sixteenth was false. Whereupon, surprise, he admitted that he’d been lying. Then he proceeded to blame his girlfriend for everything. So, adding everything together, I’m satisfied that I know how Constance Price died. She walked in on Price and Theo Stark in the master bedroom. A fight started. Theo Stark was probably coked up, or so Price alleges. She picked up the fireplace tongs, which was the murder weapon. Price was involved in the fight, I don’t know to what extent. After he realized that his wife was dead, he took Theo down the stairs to put her in her car, get her out of there. Then he’d call the sheriff, report a prowler. But John was sleeping on the couch in the living room. The question was, how much did John see? No one knew, until today—until John told you the whole story in the barn, and then repeated it for me, just now.”

  “What’s Price say?”

  “He says that Theo did it. As I said.”

  “And what’s she say?”

  Benson shook his head. He let a beat pass as he looked at Bernhardt. Then, quietly: “She can’t talk.”

  “Wh—” Suddenly his throat closed. Thank God, his face was in shadow. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that she’s got a bullet lodged in her spine.”

  Speaking with great care, great precision, Bernhardt asked, “Whose bullet? Mine? Or Price’s?”

  With equal precision, Benson shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “How many bullets were in her?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “Will she die?”

  “The doctors don’t think so. But it’s too early to be sure. They still have to operate. They’re taking her to San Francisco, right now.”

  “If I hadn’t shot, she’d have killed John.”

  “Or so you thought.”

  “Price thought so, too.”

  “Or maybe he wanted to shut her up.”

  Bernhardt decided not to reply. They’d already been over this, in the barn. He’d told the story once to Fowler, then to Benson. They’d questioned Janice separately. Certainly, she’d confirmed his story. As Theo had whirled toward him, revolver raised, he’d fired. Did he need a lawyer? Should
he refuse to continue talking, without a lawyer? They’d already put Dennis in a state police car and taken him away. Was there another car waiting? Would he spend the night in a holding cell, not with Paula?

  In the darkness of the verandah, in the balmy California night, silence lengthened. This, Bernhardt knew, was the inquisitor’s favorite tactic: watching and waiting, observing the hapless suspect as he squirmed under the full weight of the law, cataloging the tics and the false starts, letting the suspect incriminate himself as he tried to wriggle free.

  But, another sports cliché, two could play that game. Silence could favor the victim, too. Sometimes.

  Finally, wearily, Benson lifted an angular hand, then let it fall. It was an ecclesiastical gesture, a played-out sign of papal absolution.

  “Don’t worry, Bernhardt. You’re okay. Miss Hale’s and John’s stories match yours, absolutely. Price’s story matches, too.”

  Audibly, Bernhardt exhaled, allowed himself to relax in his chair. Suddenly the night was friendlier, the future brighter.

  “Yeah,” Benson said, “it’s all working out, at least so far. What’ll happen when Price’s lawyer arrives, that could be something else. Minimum, he’ll tell Price to shut up. But for now Price is talking—a lot. His girlfriend, he says, did it all—everything. She killed Constance while Price was trying to separate the two women. She shot Martelli when Martelli tried to stop them from going after John. And she tried to kill John, to keep him from incriminating her. According to Price, he just intended to scare you and Janice Hale off the property, with his rifle. But Theo had other ideas. There’s no doubt, he says, that Theo would’ve killed John.”

  “When can Theo talk?”

  “The doctor guesses it’ll be another twenty-four hours, at least. And then nothing more than a word or two. However, as soon as she can respond, even if it’s only nodding or shaking her head, I’ll be interrogating her. I pointed that fact out to Price, which could be why he started to talk. Maybe he wants to get his licks in first.” Tiredly, Benson smiled. “I’d like to think so, anyhow. It’ll make things easier.” He broke off, closed his eyes, pressed long, thin fingers to his temples. Then: “Of course, if Theo’s lawyer has even minimum law-school smarts he’s going to turn it all around. He’ll say Price struck the blow that killed his wife. He’ll say Martelli was threatening them with a rifle, and Theo shot first, before Martelli could. As for what happened in the barn, the lawyer’ll obviously say that the light was bad, and Theo thought John was either you or Janice Hale—trespassers. Or, better yet, kidnappers. She’ll say she was acting in concert with Dennis, trying to rid him of two interlopers who, they believed, had come to kidnap John, take him off the property through the hole you cut in the fence. She’ll say she saw your gun, of course, so she fired in self-defense. And, finally, she’ll accuse you of attempted murder.”

  Ruefully, Bernhardt grimaced. “Thanks a lot.” Then: “What about Martelli?”

  “Martelli is very, very lucky. The bullet didn’t hit any organs, or even break any bones. But it did nick a small vein. He probably would’ve bled to death if Maria hadn’t pressed a towel to the wound. Even at that, when the medics arrived, he was in deep shock and had lost a lot of blood. He’ll be fine, though. The bullet went right through.”

  “Thank God,” Bernhardt said. “You’d probably still be looking for Constance Price’s murderer if it hadn’t been for Martelli. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Martelli and you, Bernhardt. You’re entitled to some credit.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say it.” Bernhardt let a long, thoughtful moment pass as he stared out into darkness beyond the verandah. Then: “Does Theo know Dennis shot at her?”

  Benson shrugged. “I’m not sure. If she does know, she didn’t get it from me.”

  Thoughtfully shaking his head, Bernhardt wryly recited, “The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay …”

  Wearily, Benson smiled. “Shakespeare.”

  Surprised, Bernhardt nodded. “That’s right, Shakespeare.”

  Benson’s smile twisted, touched now with nostalgia—and inscrutable regret. “Yale drama,” he said softly.

  “Oh, God—” Bernhardt shook his head. “Not another actor.”

  “Worse. An aspiring actor, once. But I come from a long line of New York lawyers.”

  “So what’re you doing in the wilds of Benedict County?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. I escaped New York, but not the toils of the law.”

  “Well, I escaped from New York, too.”

  “Are you glad you did?”

  “Until just recently, I wasn’t really sure. Now, though, it’s fine.”

  “Are we talking about the lady registered at the Starlight Motel?”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “In my job, nosiness comes with the territory. Your job, too.”

  Bernhardt nodded. Then: “What about John? What happens to John?”

  “Ah—” Benson’s answering nod was somber. “John—that’s the question, now.”

  “And?”

  “It comes back to the toils of the law, I’m afraid.”

  Aware that he was holding his breath, Bernhardt made no reply. The DA, he knew, was about to render his decision: one mortal man, slightly balding, about to pronounce the words that could mean the world and all its laughter to a small boy named John.

  All its laughter—all its pain. Everything.

  In the short silence, three men left the house, went down the front steps and got into a highway patrol station wagon. Each man carried a valise: it was the lab crew, leaving the scene. Aside from the cars belonging to Fowler and Benson, all the official cars had gone.

  Finally Benson spoke. His voice was crisp: “John’s testimony is enough for us to take Theo Stark and Dennis Price into custody. Which, obviously, we’ve done. Technically—legally—we could lock you up, too, pending a preliminary hearing. However—” Benson waved a casual hand. “However, that’s a judgment call. I’d say designating you as a material witness, along with Janice Hale and the boy, would suffice.” He looked at Bernhardt, let a cat-and-mouse beat pass. Then testing: “Wouldn’t you say so?”

  Straight-faced, Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, I’d say so.”

  “Good.” It was the final word, the final protocol. Case closed.

  His case, closed.

  Should he thank the peripatetic DA? Was that what this little game was really all about?

  As if to respond to the query, Benson said, “That leaves John.”

  Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, that leaves John.”

  Glancing at the open front door, Benson leaned closer, lowered his voice. “If we go by the book, here, considering that Price is in custody, then the law is clear.”

  For “the book,” Bernhardt knew, he was meant to substitute “Fowler.”

  “That’s to say,” Benson continued, “by the book, we’ve got to take John over to San Rafael, and put him in the Youth Guidance Center.”

  “The Youth—” A surge of outrage momentarily choked off the rest. Then, incredulously: “The Youth Guidance Center?”

  Benson raised a cautionary hand. “Wait. Just—”

  “The kid makes a murder case for you—incriminates his own father in the death of his mother—and you want to send him to the Youth Guidance Center? Christ!”

  “Goddammit!” Lowering his voice, Benson looked again at the open door. “I said cool it.”

  “But you’re—”

  “I’m talking about the book. That’s by way of reference. A kid finds himself in a spot like John’s in, he goes to the Youth Guidance Center. Then a judge decides what happens next. But that’s not what I want.”

  “What about—” Bernhardt spoke softly now. “What about Fowler? What’s he want?”

  “Fowler doesn’t have much feeling for kids. I guess they’re too independent-minded for his taste. So—” Delicately, the other man hesitated. “So it’s up to me, to do the right thing.
”

  “Ah—” Bernhardt nodded, leaned back in his chair.

  “So here’s the plan—” Benson glanced at his watch, then made hard eye contact with Bernhardt. As he spoke, briskly and concisely, he ticked off the points on his fingers. “First, John will stay here for the night, in custody of his aunt. He’s probably asleep right this minute, in fact. Now, while John’s sleeping, Janice and you pack a bag for John. Pack several bags. You know—toys, mementos, things kids like. Then, very early tomorrow morning—six at the absolute latest—Janice and John get in her car and they drive down to Santa Barbara. Where, with luck, they’ll live happily ever after—in another jurisdiction.”

  “You’re going to arrange it, are you? This happy ending—you’re going to make it happen. Legally, make it happen.”

  “I’m the District Attorney of Benedict County, Bernhardt. DA’s have a lot of power.”

  “Mind giving me a few details?”

  Equably, Benson shrugged. “Plea bargaining. I’m sure you’ve heard of plea bargaining.”

  Bernhardt smiled.

  “It’s obvious,” Benson said, “that Dennis Price is an asshole. He doesn’t give a shit about John. Never has. Dennis is out for the money—the Hale money. It’s equally obvious that he probably wasn’t the one who killed his wife. He just doesn’t have the stones. Theo Stark, the new breed of woman, is the guilty party. She sniffed a little coke, picked up the fireplace tongs, and went wild. However, because of a combination of weakness and greed—and maybe hot pants, at least initially—Price conspired to conceal evidence of the crime. Which is, as you know, a crime of equal magnitude. So—” Benson spread his hands. “So we do a deal, the great American plea bargain, like I said. Which is to say, if Dennis agrees to turn Theo Stark for us, and if he agrees to let Janice take custody of John, then we’ll go easy on Dennis.” As he spoke, Benson smiled, rose to his feet, signifying dismissal, and extended his hand. “See?”