Extreme Justice (19 page)

Gordo snorted. “This is nothing like that. This is the real thing. You don’t go back in time to your childhood or meet Jesus or any of that rot. What would be the point of going backwards? Near death gives you a peek at the world to come. You must’ve seen some of the critical articles that have been written on the subject.”

“Well, I’ve seen a few
National Enquirer
headlines.”

He handed Ben the brochure. “I haven’t done it, but they say it’ll turn your head forever. Make you understand death as an altered state of consciousness. Kind of like the ultimate acid trip.”

Ben thumbed through the brochure. “Tune in, turn on, drop dead.”

Gordo laughed. “Something like that.”

“So your theory is sort of,
do
go gentle into that good night. And be quick about it.”

“Hey, that’s pretty good. Did you think of that yourself?”

“Me and Dylan Thomas.” Ben frowned. “Gordo, you’re even younger than I am. How did you ever get wrapped up in this death movement?”

Gordo slowly brought his hands together and steepled his fingers. “I would expect you to keep this to yourself.”

“If it relates to this case, I can’t promise I won’t use it in court. If it doesn’t relate, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Gordo bobbed his head from side to side, as if mentally weighing whether those assurances were good enough. Evidently he decided they were. “I have Addison’s disease,” he said finally. “Do you know what that is?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“It’s what JFK had. Causes a drying up of the joints. It can be treated with cortisone but …” He paused. “It’s painful at times. There are treatments now, but—my doctors say it’s gonna kill me, eventually.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ben said softly.

“I was diagnosed when I was seventeen. So you see, death and I have been constant companions for a good long while.”

Ben shifted awkwardly in his chair. This was the last direction on earth he would have expected this interview to take. “I can see how you might be … interested in the subject.”

“More than interested. I was looking for hope. Assurances.”

“People have always looked for hope,” Ben said. “The promise of an afterlife. That’s what faith is all about. But this death movement you’re describing …” He paused, casting his eyes across the piles of materials. “This goes beyond the promise and anticipation of an afterlife. This is more like a … sentimentalization of death. A worship of death, even.”

Gordo pulled a well-worn magazine off his shelf. “This is an interview Kübler-Ross did some years ago.” He thumbed rapidly through the slick pages. “Listen to this. According to the Queen, ‘People after death become complete again. The blind can see, the deaf can hear, cripples are no longer crippled after all their vital signs have ceased to exist.’ ” He grabbed a nearby book. “Here’s what she says in her latest work. ‘Death is a wonderful and positive experience … When the time is right, we can let go of our bodies and we will be free of pain, free of fears and worries—free as a very beautiful butterfly, returning home to God.’ ”

“So death becomes the ultimate panacea.”

Gordo’s eyelids fluttered as he settled back into his chair. “It’s a beautiful thought, isn’t it?”

“Well, actually, no.” Ben knew he shouldn’t argue; this wouldn’t advance his investigation. But he couldn’t help himself. “Don’t you see that sentiments like hers in effect encourage people to kill themselves? No wonder suicide rates are at an all-time high, and euthanasia is becoming downright trendy. People should be encouraged to make the most of this life, no matter what hand they’re dealt, rather than just anticipating some supposed miracle to come after they’re dead and buried.”

“The truth is, Ben, you’ve been brainwashed by conventionality.”

“The truth is, Gordo, no one really knows what, if anything, happens to us after we die. This death and dying stuff doesn’t have any more scientific basis than astrology or spoon-bending.” Ben bit down on his lower lip. He knew he wasn’t handling this very well. “Gordo, I’m sorry to hear you have a serious disease. But a lot of people who learned that they might not have a full-length life have used that knowledge to drive themselves to work harder and accomplish more. Kennedy, for example. But this death and dying crap pushes people in just the opposite direction. Instead of urging them to accomplish more, it urges them to accomplish less. Don’t make the most of your days. End it now. Make the transition.”

Gordo shook his head. “You just don’t understand, Ben. But you will in time. Everyone will, in time. Either before the transition, or after. Death claims us all.”

True enough, Ben thought as he rose from the sofa and prepared to leave. Death had certainly claimed a victim here. The only problem was, the victim wasn’t dead.

B
EN TURNED OFF
Cherry Street and maneuvered to an alleyway behind the first row of street-front buildings. He found an area where the tallgrass had been plowed under; it was being used as a makeshift parking lot.

He parked his van, then headed back toward the stores and offices. It took him only a few moments to find the sign directing him to Theatre Tulsa. He found a backstage door and entered.

There was a woman standing near the door. The costume designer, Ben guessed, judging from the disorganized array of thimbles and colored threads and needles. She directed him to the back of the stage. Ben wove his way through the hubbub of actors and stagehands and crewpersons, all darting in different directions at the same time. Soon he saw a familiar crown of yellow spikes poking over the top of a stage flat.

She was hammering away, utterly oblivious to the chaos surrounding her.

“So this is where you unwind,” Ben said.

Diane glanced up, then returned her attention to her hammering. “This is where I make a living,” she replied. “You don’t think I can live off what Earl pays me, do you?”

“Probably not,” Ben agreed. He crouched down. She was nailing the base of a vertical beam—part of an office set, he guessed—to the flat. “But I wouldn’t have guessed you were involved in stagecraft. A poker professional, a stage manager, and a carpenter. I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be.” She propped herself up on an elbow. “It’s all just hammer and nails, basically. And the occasional splash of paint. My dad had a workshop in the garage. He loved carpentry—loved it far more than selling insurance, which was how he spent most of his life. Till he died. Anyway, he showed me how to do all this stuff. It’s easy, really, once you know how. Nothing to get excited about.”

“You must do it well. The woman on the phone told me you’ve been here for six seasons.”

“It’s a great group. Everything about their productions is excellent, except the budget. They need someone who can get the job done without spending a lot of money.” She smiled. “I can fill that bill. I don’t do anything brilliant. They just need someone to make decisions. That’s me.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

She laid down her hammer. “Such flattery. Ben, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to get in my pants.”

Ben’s face suddenly turned crimson.

She grinned. “But since I do know better, you must want something else.”

“Well, it isn’t that I want something—”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I wanted to talk to you. That’s all. In private.”

“So you
are
trying to get in my pants.”

“No! I just—”

She laid her hand on his arm. “Ben, you are so fun to play with.” She straightened up and sat on the stage with crossed legs. “So what is it you’re so anxious to discuss?”

“Well, the murder. That night. Earl.”

“Right. I heard you were representing him.” She placed a finger against a cheek. “Personally, I wasn’t that surprised when I heard you were a lawyer. I’d always figured you had an ugly secret buried in your past. I just didn’t realize how ugly it was.”

“You were at the club the night the body was found,” Ben said, moving briskly along. “And I remember you asked me to clear the stage while I was practicing. That was just a few minutes before the man with the rug showed up. Did you see him?”

She shook her head. “If I did, I didn’t notice. But I tend to think I would’ve noticed, because I get pretty protective about that stage when we’re close to showtime. So I probably didn’t see him.”

“It was barely half an hour before the club opened. I’m surprised someone other than me didn’t see him.”

“I’m not. That was the ideal time to come. Earlier, the club would be closed, or the band would be rehearsing. Later, the crowd would have started to gather. But he caught us after rehearsal, after the front doors were unlocked, but before any patrons had arrived. Perfect.”

It was perfect, Ben agreed. Almost too perfect. It was one more reason to believe the most likely suspect was someone who worked at the club. Someone who knew. Or someone working with someone who knew.

“I don’t suppose you saw that corpse up on the stage light.”

“Not before you did.”

“Or any evidence that it was up there?”

“Ben, I’m the stage manager. Do you think that if I knew there was a corpse dangling over my pianist I would have just ignored it?”

“Sorry, stupid question.”

“No kidding.”

“Did you see anyone or anything else of a suspicious nature? Either at the time or after the fact?”

She shook her head. “I’ll tell you what I told the cops. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Until you started snuggling with the stiff, that is.” She snapped her fingers. “Although, now that you mention it, Denny was acting bizarre. Even more than usual.”

Ben’s head snapped to attention. “How so?”

“It’s hard to explain. It was more … a feeling I had, a feeling I got when I was around him. Didn’t you notice anything?”

Ben shook his head no.

“Just after rehearsal, he was wandering around with his head bowed, muttering to himself.” She whipped back her dangling blonde spikes. “If I were you, I’d talk to Denny.”

“I saved him for tomorrow. He lives out of town, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know. Do you?”

Ben blinked. “Do—what?”

She grinned. “You’ll find out.”

A tall man approached Diane, with shimmering diaphanous costumes draped over each arm. “Diane, honey, I need a decision.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Which do you prefer, the pink or the chartreuse?”

“Mmm … the pink.”

“Good, I thought so.” He whirled around and headed back toward the wings.

Diane smiled at Ben. “See? They love me.”

“Do you know anything about costumes?”

She laughed. “I’m not even sure those were costumes. For all I know, Scott’s picking out drapes for his living room.”

Ben tried to steer the conversation back to the murder. “What about Earl? How much do you know about him?”

“Not much. He’s the boss, that’s all. And a pretty mediocre poker player.”

“Know anyone who dislikes him?”

“I’ve seen him toss out a drunken patron or three.”

“I need something more than that. Something that would create a strong motive.”

“But Earl wasn’t killed. It was that Lily woman.”

“Yes, but someone went to a lot of trouble to implicate Earl. Know of anyone who would have a motive for that?”

She thought for several moments. “Sorry. I really don’t.”

“And you probably didn’t know Lily Campbell.”

“No, I didn’t. But Scat did. Her death really hit him hard.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It was something I heard just after the corpse tumbled to the ground. I was in the wings at the time, closest to Scat. As soon as the corpse rolled forward, and we both got a clear look at her face, he murmured, ‘The lily’s been clipped.’ It was under his breath, just barely audible. I’m sure I’m the only one who heard it. I didn’t understand what it meant at the time; I thought he was being poetic. But then, after I heard what the woman’s name was … well, I knew better.”

“Hmm. That’s something, anyway. Thanks, Diane.”

“Anytime.”

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll drop by later and let you make a decision for me.”

It couldn’t hurt, he thought, as he ambled across the stage toward the back door. After all, he had several pending at the moment. And he didn’t seem to be making any progress on his own.

C
HRISTINA SHOWED UP
at Ben’s apartment around eight, not long after he arrived himself.

“I got everything you asked for,” she said, reaching into a paper sack. “Two platters of cashew chicken double delight, egg rolls, lumpia dogs, dessert, coffee”—she paused—“and this.” She withdrew a small handheld mirror. “So what’s shaking, Ben? Don’t you already have a mirror in your bathroom?”

“Um, yeah,” he hedged. “A wall mirror. But I wanted … another one.”

“You did? Why?”

“No reason.”

A tentative smile crept across her face. “You’re going to look at the back of your head, aren’t you?”

His chin rose. “I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours.”

“That’s the only time guys need a second mirror.” She spread the food across the kitchen table. “May I ask what’s brought on this sudden concern about the back of your head?”

He thought carefully before answering. “When those cops surrounded me at your place yesterday, I heard one of them describing me on his car radio. He said I was a white male, five five—and I’m actually five six—”

“In shoes.”

“Slim—and get this—brown hair, ‘slightly balding in the back.’ Can you believe that?”

Christina looked away. “Well…”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Give it to me straight, Christina. Is my hair falling out?”

She shrugged. “Just a little.” She touched a place on the back of his head. “Just a teeny-weeny little bald spot.”

“A bald spot? He didn’t say there was a bald spot!”

“Ben, it s tiny. “I can’t believe this! I’m too young!”

“Apparently not.”

“My father lived to be fifty-nine and he never balded at all.”

“Your father’s hairline is irrelevant. It’s your mother’s genes that matter.”

“My mother isn’t bald!”