Simple (8 page)

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“Oh? I mean did you think she was pretty?”

“She was beautiful.”

“Did you like her?”

“Yes. Of course I liked her.”

“Did you wish she was your girlfriend?”

“She wasn't.”

“Did you wish she was?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you wish she could be?”

“But she wasn't.”

“Would it be nice, though, if she could be?”

“Yes.”

“Who
was
her boyfriend?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you see her go with anyone?”

“No.”

“Men at the house?”

“No.”

“Never? A pretty girl like that?”

“I don't know. I didn't see anything like that, men at the house.”

“Was she nice to you?”

“Yeah.”

“We found some things at your house.”

He blinked, puzzled. “My house?”

“You want to go home, to your house?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then just answer what we have to ask. Did you kill Cassie Price?”

A stunned expression. “No. No. Oh, my God.”

A knock on the door. For a while, a series of murmurs.

“We're going to take a bit of a break,” says McGranahan.

“Can I go home now?”

“No. No. Actually no. We'll be right back.”

Cal fidgeted on the tape. He cried. He shook his head woefully.

When the detectives came back in, they said, “Calvin Hathaway. We are taking you into custody in connection with the murder of Cassie Price. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used in evidence against you. You also have the right to an attorney. Would you like to have a lawyer present?”

“I didn't do it.”

“Would you like to have a lawyer?”

“Why? What does it mean if I have one?”

“You are allowed to have one by law. I'm assuming you don't have a lawyer … Is that right?”

“I never used a lawyer for anything.”

“You are allowed one phone call. Who would you like to call?”

“I don't know.”

“Get him a phone. Want to call your mother again, let her call someone to represent you?”

“I don't want to bother her again. It's late.”

There was another break in the tape. That was 11:29. The tape started up again at 11:47.

“Would you state your full name and where you live?”

“Cal Hathaway.”

“Is that your full name?”

“Calvin. I never use it much.”

“That's okay. And where do you live?”

“I told you before.”

“Just for the record.”

“On Child Street.” He gave the number.

“That's the name of a street?”

“Yes.”

“Is that behind Parkview?”

“Yes. Behind and one street over.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Police.”

“Do you remember my name?”

“No.”

“I'm Detective McGranahan. Homicide. Can you say who I am?”

“Detective McGranahan. Homicide.”

“Have you had a pretty good summer?”

This getting-friendly talk that detectives are supposed to do appeared to confuse Cal. He squirmed, put his hands to his mouth. “No.”

“No?”

“Not now.”

“Okay. Just listen and answer our questions. Can you tell me what you do for a living?”

“Work on people's houses.”

“Doing what?”

“Roof. Porch. Painting. Different things.”

“Do you recognize these gloves?”

“I think … Are they mine? See, I have a lot of pairs.” Long pause. He looks around. “I can't tell.”

Another break.

When they come back, it is 12:52. Cal Hathaway is visibly nervous.

“I don't have to talk,” Cal says. “Is that right?”

“That's right. You don't have to, but we hope you do. We're tired. We know you're tired. Just relax for a minute and tell us what you know about the death of Cassie Price.”

“I found her body. I already told about that.”

“Do you know how she died?”

He appears to think. “Strangled?”

Coleson jumps a little, and so does McGranahan.

“How do you know that?”

Cal scratches his chin. “I could see. I mean, at first I thought she was sick, but then I could see there wasn't any blood anywhere and there were marks on her neck.”

“You looked at the body for how long? Before calling police?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you move anything?”

“No, I said before. No.”

“What was she strangled with?”

“The gloves?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You showed me.”

“If a person did it, when do you think it was done?”

“Middle of the night.”

“How was it done?”

“Strangled.” Cal starts to cry.

“Why are you crying?”

“For her. Because it's sad. She's dead.”

“Any other reason?”

“I'm tired.”

“Did you strangle her?”

A strange look comes over Cal. Anger. His face scrunches up and he looks as if he could blow fire. “Yes. Maybe. Maybe I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't remember. I don't remember.”

“You said yes.”

“I don't know. Maybe I was dreaming. Or went crazy.”

“You said before that you liked her a lot.”

“Yes.”

“But you killed her.”

“Am I done?”

“Almost. You said yes, you did.”

“I'm really upset. I need to sleep.”

“You killed Cassie Price?”

“I just want to sleep. That's all I want. I want to put this day away and come back and be able to think.”

“I'm going to have you sign something.” McGranahan looks to the clock and says to the camera: “One twenty-nine
A.M.
”

*   *   *

ELINOR TOOK THE BUS
to work even though she had called the station in the night and knew her son had confessed. The only thing she could think to do was go to work, be useful. She blamed herself for everything, not being able to protect her son, not knowing how to. He was a good boy, a loving boy, but he'd been so unlucky—that whole terrible trauma of his childhood. Will she always be unable to help? She'd been at work, didn't know a thing, the day he almost died. Her mother, who lived with them, had gotten word that Cal was beaten and lying in a ditch, dead, and her mother had run down the street and found him on the pavement, bloody and unconscious. She screamed for help. Then somebody made a call to the police, and finally there was an ambulance, everything so slow, her mother said, so slow, and Elinor didn't know a thing about it all that time, thinking it was just a normal workday at the Connollys'. They were good to her then, during it all, insisting she take time off, and even paying medical bills that weren't covered.

She looked around the bus, noting familiar people among the strangers, feeling they might somehow guess her connection with the man arrested last night. All of it seemed completely unreal in the light of day. Something must have sparked her son's anger at the young woman. Elinor couldn't imagine it; anything she tried to come up with didn't make sense of the son she knew. How had the school counselor put it when he was in middle school—all that gentleness, given what he'd gone through, there must be wells of anger in him underneath.

She would have to talk to someone. Surely he had been provoked. And
surely
he had blacked out. He didn't remember doing the murder or he would have said when she asked him. The bus she rode came to a stop on Fifth Avenue. She was up and moving and getting off the bus as she had done every day for so many years now.

She started up the hill, winding her way. She could have taken off today, the Connollys would have let her, but routines had always kept her sane. Today on her list was getting the boys' school things ready. They needed gym clothes, swimming trunks, goggles, fins, tennis and racquetball rackets.

On Woodland Road, where she walked, everything was beautiful. The grounds, the trees—gorgeous. Mostly to the right on this lane were the buildings of Chatham University and mostly to the left were private houses like the one she worked in. To think young kids got to go to college right here, right on this road with the old mansions and the lawns and trees that were like a park.

She couldn't think what she could do for her son. She fought through the numbness.

When she found a moment, she would use her cell phone to call the police and find out about next steps and when she could see her boy.

She entered the house, using a key, disarming the alarms. It was quiet, nobody up. Elinor checked her watch. She was ten minutes later than usual, but it wasn't her fault, the bus was late this morning. Because she hadn't eaten, her stomach felt very strange.

Then she heard a sound. A voice. Low. She went through the downstairs and saw there was a light on in the TV room. It was Mr. Connolly. He was half asleep, with a liquor glass in his hand. He was dressed for the day in linen pants and a light lime green sweater. “It's about your son,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

He clicked the remote to turn off the TV.

“I know about it. What are they saying?”

“Just that phrase about ‘arrested in connection with.' You don't have to be here. Go home.”

“I want to work.”

She said it so harshly that he seemed stuck for a reply.

The phone rang and he answered it, gesturing to her to stay. He said into the phone, “Of course I'm up.” He put a hand over the mouthpiece, turned to her, and said, “I could use some coffee.”

And strong, she thought, real strong.

*   *   *

TODD SIMON CLICKED
off his phone and sat at a kitchen table, not his own, drinking coffee and smoking. He ran his hands over his face.
Damage control
was the phrase running around in his head. Mick, the idiot, wanted to volunteer to represent that kid, Cal, or to find someone who could. Said he
knew
him, knew his family. Of all the stupid ideas … Simon had used his calm, easy voice to tell him, “No, no, do not do that, conflict of interest aside, now is the time to back away, to stay out of it. She
happened
to work at Connolly and sons. Period. That's your stance.”

He stubbed out a cigarette with a force that rocked the table. How was he supposed to protect a guy who couldn't protect himself? Give him a Machiavel any day over a simple man. His Mick had
a face
they all liked, he
made friends
wherever he went, he did a zillion charitable works, and, as the muckety-mucks explained to each other in Harrisburg, the guy had the goods to be a star.

But he needed sense.

Mick did well with the women—in every respect. Votes and fund-raising and bed partners, the latter of which he would have to give up in order to run for office. Simon did not envy him. It was
the
great pleasure in life. It was what our Lord, in a jolly mood, gave us to make up for the piss-poor mood he was in the rest of the time. Simon himself had five on deck a year ago. One didn't mind sharing him and knew he had several others. Pat. One was very dumb and frighteningly young. Mindy. She let him come and go once or twice a month without coming up with the courage to ask him for anything. He was down to three lately, and one of them was getting to be a problem. It was always something: She wanted his phone numbers or wanted to know where he was when she hadn't heard from him. Carola. She had come to his house bearing a tray of lasagna, as a “surprise” she said, and had been inconsolable when he wasn't pleased. She was, well, maybe not on deck any longer. All he said when she stood there with the lasagna was, “I can't talk about why I can't stay home tonight. I'm needed somewhere. And it's confidential. And it's governmental. If you can't handle it, I'm sorry.” She went fuming into the night. He had managed to get the lasagna out of her hands, though, and it was good stuff. She'd call soon, wanting her pan back.

Pat he could always go back to if he wanted. Rita and Fredericka were still on deck.

He had chosen very carefully who to spend his last couple of nights with. She was a woman who wanted a little more from him than he was giving but wouldn't admit it, even to herself. She didn't cook for him, in fact forgot to cook for herself most of the time, eating whatever she could grab fast. She was a big (not fat) woman—and tough. She had a crew that worked for her renovating houses in places like Lawrenceville, wherever there was old property with some treasure to be preserved—old fireplaces, tin ceilings, stained glass windows. She knew her stuff. It's all she talked about—floor joists and stress points.

He'd first met her at a crowded restaurant. She was alone at a table and he was alone, and they were aware there were thirty people waiting to be seated. She was wearing jeans and a paint-stained work shirt. “Do you mind?” he asked, indicating a place at her table. And she said, “No problem. Go ahead. Sit.” She announced that her name was Fredericka but that she went by Freddie. He really thought for a while he wasn't interested in her, but the more she talked about her work, the more animated she got; her eyes sparkled. He liked her. People generally did. She was very likable and upbeat. And definitely all woman in bed.

He chose her. It was tricky, though. He'd neglected her. He said, in the phone call from a pay phone, “I dreamt about you last night. I've been groaning all day.”

“Ha. Sounds like a fun day.”

“What do you mean?”

“Arousal is fun. It's … exciting. Where the hell are you? I hear traffic.”

“Yeah, well, my phone was out of charge and I was thinking about you, so I pulled over to call.”