The Little Death (8 page)

“The
coroner says it was an accident.”

“The
coroner also said he was drugged.”

“The
guy was a hype. Whaddaya expect?” Torres blew a cloud of cigar smoke across the
small, windowless room, then tilted back in his swivel chair revealing an
enormous stomach that poured over a heavy metal belt buckle fashioned from the
letters USMC. The desk between us was piled high with papers but he had cleared
enough space for the plastic nameplate that identified him as Samuel Torres,
Detective, Homicide.

Torres
and I went back a long way. I had once dissected his testimony on
cross-examination in a murder case on which he was the investigator. He was
lucky the jury hadn’t hissed him when he got off the stand. Neither of us had
forgotten his humiliation. Now he studied me with small, dark eyes. On the
wall, above his pitted, jowly face, there was a calendar distributed by some
policeman’s association. It was a drawing showing two cops standing against a
flowering tree of some kind. They were dressed in black uniforms, riot helmets
on their heads, jaws adamantly set against the future. Fine art, cop style.
That calendar drawing spoke volumes to me about the cops — they were menacing
and paranoid, and not very bright.

“A
hype knows how much he can handle,” I said, resuming my conversation with
Torres. It was three in the afternoon, and I had not been home since I was
brought to the morgue that morning from my apartment.

“Hey,
everyone makes a mistake. The guy was just partying. And

anyway,
counsel” — he said the last word sneeringly — “we got this one figured out.”

Now
it was my turn to sneer. “Right. You have him wandering around the university
at ten at night, shot up with dope, losing his balance, tumbling down the
embankment and drowning in three feet of water. It happens every day.”

“You’re
wasting my time,” Torres said.

“I
don’t think that’s possible, detective.”

“Watch
it, Rios. This ain’t a courtroom. No judge is gonna take your punches for you.”

“I’m
terrified.”

“Ormes,
get him out of here.”

The
only other person in the office, a woman who had been quietly listening to us,
rose from her desk and came over to me. Her nameplate identified her as Terry
Ormes, also a homicide detective. She was tall and slender, and she wore a dark
blue dress cut so austerely that I had thought it was a uniform at first. She
had an open, plain face made plainer by the cut of her hair and the absence of
makeup. It wasn’t the kind of face that compelled a second look, but if you
did look again you were rewarded. Her face radiated intelligence. She studied
me for a second with luminous gray eyes.

“Come
on, Mr. Rios,” she said in a friendly voice, “I’ll walk you out.”

I
shrugged and followed her out of the office, down a bright corridor, past the
crowded front desk to the steps of the police station. It was a cool afternoon,
cloudy.

“Your
colleague’s an asshole,” I said out of frustration.

“Sam’s
been around a long time and he’s set in his ways. He’s not a bad cop, just
tired.”

The
mildness of her reply knocked the air out of my anger. “Well, thanks —
Detective.”

“Terry,”
she said, extending her hand.

“I’m
Henry,” I said, shaking hands.

“I
think you’re right about Hugh Paris,” she said. “I think someone killed him. I
just can’t figure out who or why.”

I
looked at her. “Can you talk now?” She nodded. “Let’s get a cup of coffee,
then.” I gestured to a Denny’s across the street.

“You
look beat,” she said, once we were seated in an orange vinyl booth. I took a
sip of coffee, tasting nothing but hot.

“It’s
been a long day and it started at the morgue. Why do you think Hugh was
murdered?’’

“I
was the first one from homicide at the scene this morning,” she said. “Are you
familiar with the footbridge?”

I
said yes. San Francisquito Creek ran along the eastern boundary of the campus
at the edge of the wood that fanned out in both directions from the entrance to
the school. As the creek flowed north into the bay, it descended, ultimately
becoming subterranean as it crept into town. By the time it reached the edge
of campus, there was a six-foot embankment down to the water.

Across
from the creek was the edge of a shopping center. The footbridge forded the
creek at this point, allowing pedestrians access to the shopping center from
the walking paths through the wood. The area around the bridge, some of the
densest wood on campus, had a bad reputation since it had been the scene of a
couple of rapes a few years earlier. It wasn’t the kind of place people visited
at night.

Terry
Ormes was saying, “I was there before they lifted the body out of the water. It
was just at dawn and I was watching from the bridge. I swear I saw footprints
down there on the bank, and they weren’t made by just one pair of shoes.”

“How
many pairs of shoes?”

“At
least two pair. The sand kept the impressions pretty good.”

“Anyone
take pictures?”

“I
went back to my car to radio for a photographer,” she said, “but by the time I
got back, the paramedics had gone charging down the embankment and pulled him
out of the water. They walked all over the place. There was no way to tell.”

“That
doesn’t help much,” I said glumly.

She
lowered her coffee cup. “That’s not all. I walked up that embankment six or
seven times. I didn’t see anything, not a scrap of clothing or blood or hair or
even any broken grass. If Hugh Paris slipped down the embankment, he was
awfully careful not to leave any traces behind. And there’s one other thing.
You saw the body?” I nodded. “Did you see his back?” “No.”

“There
were bruises around his shoulders. I think someone held him face down in the
water until he drowned.”

All
I could manage was, “Jesus.” There was a long, still moment between us. “Did
you tell any of this to Torres?”

“Sure,”
she said, “but it didn’t make it into his report. Like I said, Sam’s tired.
This one just looked too tough to make out a murder.”

I
sighed. “Well, he’s right, maybe. A jury wouldn’t convict a guy of a parking
ticket on the evidence we’ve got.”

She
gazed at me, coolly. “Why do you care?”

“Hugh
was my friend. He told me someone was trying to kill him, but I didn’t believe
him. Now I owe him the truth, whatever it may be.”

“Is
that all?”

“You
really want to know?”

“No,”
she said abruptly. “If it’s personal, keep it to yourself, but if it’s
something I can use to investigate, don’t hold back. Is that fair?”

“Very
fair, detective,” I said. “I need more time before I can tell you anything
else.”

She
took out a business card and scribbled a number on the back of it. “My home
number,” she explained. “This investigation is officially closed, so don’t
call me at the office.” She handed the card to me. “I’ll help you if I can.”

“Why?”

“I’m
a cop,” she said, a little defiantly. “We’re not all like Sam.”

I
finished my coffee then found a phone and called the coroner’s office to ask
when they’d release the autopsy report and their official findings. I was
informed that the body had been claimed by the family and there would be no
autopsy. The preliminary findings — death by misadventure — would stand. It
was hard to get additional information from the sexless bureaucratic whine on
the other end of the line but, finally, it told me that Hugh’s body had been
turned over to his mother, Katherine Paris, who gave a local address and listed
the university as her place of employment.

It
was dark as I drove home. The tree-lined street where I lived was still and
from the windows of my neighbors’ houses came the yellow glow of light and
domesticity. My own apartment would be dark and chilly. For a moment I
considered driving past my building to the nearest bar but I was too tired. I
felt the weight of the day and its images like an ache that wracked my brain.
Surely we were never meant to live in the appalling circumstances in which we
so often found ourselves, alone, fearful, mute. I parked, got out of my car
and stood indecisively in the driveway. With whom could I share this loss?

I
could think of no one. I walked to my apartment and slipped the key into the lock.
I pushed the door open, walked through the living room into the bedroom and lay
on the bed, fully clothed. Despite my exhaustion I made myself relive the last
day I spent with Hugh, scouring my memory for clues to his death. He’d risen
early, put on a tie and blazer. He said he was going out on business and asked
me to meet him at the St. Francis around noon. I’d become accustomed to Hugh’s
solitary comings and goings and once I was satisfied they didn’t involve
drugs, I relaxed.

I’d
arrived at the St. Francis early and had just turned the corner from Geary when
I spotted Hugh, his back turned to me, engaged in emphatic conversation with a
tall old man. They’d talked for a moment and then the old man got into a silver
Rolls.

Uncle
John. John Smith.

That’s
how Hugh referred to the old man, as Uncle John. But he wouldn’t tell me
anything more and we argued over lunch about it.

“I’m
protecting you,” I heard him say. Uncle John. That afternoon we made love. And
then—

I
woke up four hours later, rolled myself over onto my back and sat up. I was
certain someone else was in the apartment. I switched on a lamp and made a lot
of noise getting out of bed. Then, like a frightened child, I went, noisily,
from room to room talking to the darkness as I turned on every light in the
apartment. Eventually, I found myself standing in the middle of the living
room. I was alone. I stood there for a few minutes, not feeling or thinking
anything, not knowing what to do. Then, my stomach, which had been patient all
day, roared and demanded food.

I
rummaged through the refrigerator coming up with a shriveled apple and a carton
of spoiled cottage cheese. In the end, I made my meal out of a bottle of Jack
Daniels and a packet of peanuts left over from some long-forgotten airplane trip.
I sat down to think. It seemed a waste of time to devise fancy theories about a
crime when the evidence was barely sufficient even to establish that a crime
had occurred. I believed Hugh had been murdered, but the basis of my belief
consisted of Hugh’s unsupported assertions and Terry Ormes’ unrecorded observations.
Clearly, I needed to know more about the Paris family and Hugh’s last few
months.

The
latter I would leave to Ormes — with the resources of the police department
behind her, she could tap into the paper trail that we all generate as we go
through life. As for the Paris family and Hugh’s relations with it, two names
immediately came to mind, Aaron Gold and Katherine Paris. Then I drew a blank.
Finally, a third name did occur to me. Grant Hancock. I turned the name over in
my mind and mentally wrote beside it, “last resort.” Then I poured another
drink.

*
* * * *

The
law office of Grayson, Graves and Miller, Aaron Gold’s firm, occupied the top
three floors of the tallest building in town. A carpeted, wood-paneled elevator
whisked me up to the twentieth floor and deposited me in a reception room the
size of my entire apartment and considerably better furnished. A middle-aged
woman sat behind a semi-circular desk, beneath a Rothko, manipulating the most
elaborate phone console I had ever seen. Wading through the carpet, and between
the heavy chairs and couches scattered around the room, I approached her and
asked for Aaron. She took my measure with a glance and invited me to wait.

Instead,
I walked over to a huge globe of the world and spun it. She cleared her throat
censoriously and I drifted to the window. The window faced south to the
foothills and beyond, where behind rustic stone walls and elaborate electronic
alarm systems, the firm’s rich clients kept the twentieth century at bay.

Grayson,
Graves and Miller was just another weapon in their armory. The receptionist
called my name and directed me through the door beside her desk and down the
hall. I went through the door and found myself looking down a seemingly
endless, blue- carpeted corridor lined with closed doors. I heard a lot of
frantic voices coming from behind those doors. The refrigerated air blew
uncomfortably as I made my way down the hall looking for Gold’s office. This,
it occurred to me, was my idea of hell. Just then, a door opened and Gold
stepped out and came toward me. The stride was a touch less athletic today, I
noticed, and the stomach muscles sagged a bit beneath his elegantly tailored
shirt. He was tired around the mouth and eyes and his shaggy hair looked
recently slept on.