Topping From Below (39 page)
He sits down next to me, saying, “Are you Nora Tibbs?” When I nod, he says, “You said in your letter that maybe you could help me. Can you?” His eyes are azure blue, the same color as his prison shirt, and without any warmth at all.
“I’m not sure,” I say, wishing I could have brought paper with me, or a tape recorder. “I need to know a few things.”
He glances to the left furtively, then back at me, his eyes cold. “What kind of things?” he asks, tapping his fingers nervously on his knee.
“About the letters you wrote to Cheryl Mansfield. The phone calls.”
He looks at me, then says, “Would you buy me a cheeseburger? There’re cheeseburgers in the vending machines.”
“Okay,” I say, and fumble with the money in my hand. I hold up a five, but Kirn doesn’t take it.
“You have to come with me,” he says. “We’re not allowed to touch money in here.”
We walk over to the vending machines. A woman holding a Bible says, “Jesus died for your sins,” to a man eating microwaved pizza, his body hunched over a table. I put a five dollar bill into a change machine, then buy a cheeseburger for a dollar seventy-five, and hand it to Kirn.
“Some coffee, too,” he says, walking over to the microwave, putting his cheeseburger inside, “and that enchilada. We don’t get anything spicy here.”
I change another five and get the rest of his food, feeling like a waitress. Kirn warms it in the microwave, then sits down at an empty table. I sit across from him, watching. He eats the cheeseburger in three bites.
“I didn’t kill her,” he says. “Nobody believes me.” He looks up. “Except maybe you. Do you believe me?”
I don’t know the answer to that question. 1 read all the newspaper clippings on the Mansfield murder, I talked to the detectives who were working the case. Mark Kirn is the murderer; they were positive of that—and so was the jury who convicted him. I shrug. “The evidence is fairly incriminating,” I say. “You were seen in the parking lot minutes after she was murdered. And your fingerprints were all over the knife.”
“I was framed,” he says. “If I killed her, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave the knife behind.” He glances to the side, nervously looking around. “Besides, I loved Cheryl. I wouldn’t have hurt her.”
“She had a restraining order against you,” I say. “You were on probation.”
“I shouldn’t have gone by the TV station, I know that. But I wanted to see her. That’s all. I didn’t kill her.”
“Tell me about the stalking. You called her, you took her picture and sent them to her, you broke into her house.”
“The police couldn’t prove that,” he says. “I never broke into her house. It was her word against mine. There weren’t any fingerprints.”
“What about the rest?”
He gulps down the last of the coffee. “Yes, I did the other things. But that doesn’t mean I killed her.” He hesitates, then adds, “We saw each other for two years. We were going to be married. When she broke up with me, I was angry. I did some things I shouldn’t have done. I admit that. But I didn’t kill her.”
He sits up straight and looks at me in earnest. “Listen, you have to help me. You’re the only one who can.” He leans forward and places his hand on mine. Even though he is begging for my assistance, seemingly sincere, there’s a cold, aloof air about him, as if nothing—at least nothing in this world—could really touch him. I draw back my hand.
“Tell me about the letters,” I say.
Kirn folds his arms across his chest. “Okay,” he says, “so there were letters. So what?”
“What did you write?”
“I told her how much I loved her.”
“You threatened to kill her.”
Kirn uncrosses his arms. He shifts in the seat. “I just wanted to get her attention. She was ignoring me. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He leans forward again.
“I was angry,” he says. “The letters, the calls—they don’t mean anything. She went to the police and filed charges against me. I was given a misdemeanor and put on probation. I even had to visit a psychiatrist. After that, I stayed away from her. No calls, no letters, nothing. Then one night I decided to go to the TV station and apologize. But after I got there, I changed my mind. I thought she might report me, that she might think I was there to harass her. So I went home. The next thing I know, police are at my house, saying I killed her. Except it wasn’t me. Someone else killed her. Someone who knew I was bothering her. There’s a man named Ian McCarthy. Check him out if you want to find her murderer. It was probably him. He’s a violent man. A jealous man. He beat me up once, in front of Scott’s Seafood, just because Cheryl and I were talking.” He leans back into the chair and adds, “He knew he could kill her and frame it on me.”
I remember the night Ian told me Cheryl was seeing other men behind his back, how it had made him crazy. But crazy enough to kill her? I scrutinize Kim, wondering how much to believe. I’m not sure what I hoped to gain by visiting him—an insight to his innocence or guilt, I suppose, confirmation that I was correct to hand Ian over to the police. I sit back in my chair, watching him, a man who looks out of place in San Quentin. It could have been Ian.
A guard comes out on the floor with a Polaroid camera. People get up and start walking over to the Yosemite mural.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Kirn says, “Visiting time is almost up. The guard will take your picture, if you’d like one. I have a ducat for the picture.”
I look at him, not understanding. Isn’t a ducat a gold coin?
“It’s a ticket,” he explains. “You can’t get the picture for free. You have to buy a ducat.”
I watch as the guard snaps pictures of inmates with their girlfriends, wives, parents, children, with Yosemite in the background. I think what a strange place this is for death-row murderers. Kirn pulls a ticket out of his pocket.
“Let’s get our picture taken,” he says. “I’d like a picture of us together.”
I look at him, his cold blue eyes, and get a queasy feeling in my stomach.
I wake up slowly this morning. I didn’t fall asleep last night until well after three. It was one of those fitful, sleepless nights where my mind never shuts off and I check the clock every half hour to see what time it is. When I finally did sleep, disjointed images floated through my mind—glaciated cliffs, waterfalls, white winged horses, Yosemite Valley. El Capitan’s dome merges into the face of Mark Kirn, his eyes sky blue and glacier cold. Then Pegasus rises, stomping his hoof on Helicon, home of the Muses, and I marvel at the mountain spring that flows from the kick of his hoof, only to discover that it isn’t water flowing but blood, and I am under the hoof of Pegasus now, and he’s stomping on me and my toga-clad body. Exhausting dreams.
I wake up tired, as if I’d been working all night long. I stretch, yawn, and roll over. Although I want to snuggle deeper under the blanket, I put on a bathrobe and get up. In the kitchen, I see a white envelope in the center of the counter. I frown, not remembering I’d left anything there before going to bed. I wasn’t paying bills last night; I wasn’t writing letters. Then my body stiffens. I tear open the envelope, my hand shaking. It’s similar to the one I received in the mail, the message written from letters torn out of magazines.
“I warned you—your time is up.”
The letter trembles in my unsteady hand. This is from Ian; it has to be Ian. He’s the only one who has a key to my house. And he was here last night while I lay sleeping. I bring my arms up and clasp my shoulders, a protective move, hugging myself. He could’ve killed me if he wanted to.
Suddenly, I freeze. There was a noise in the house. A sharp snap, or maybe it was a click. I’m still hugging myself, and my fingernails dig into my arms. Was it just the house settling, or was the noise something else? Is Ian still here? My ears strain. My breathing stops. I hear nothing.
Next to the front door, on a table, I keep a canister of Mace. I pick it up, then look inside the living room. I check behind all the furniture to make sure Ian isn’t here, hiding. Then I walk, tentatively, to the hallway. I stop before I get there. In my bones, I feel the panic and fear accompanying the idea that an intruder may be present, here, now, violating the safety of my home. I hesitate, irresolute. Finally, I continue to tiptoe down the hallway. I check the office. Slowly, I slide the closet door open. No one. Then I crane my head around the bathroom door. There is no one here, either. Still armed with my can of Mace, my heart pounding, I go into the bedroom, check under the bed and in the closets. No one is here. Ian is not in my house. Relaxing, I check the front door. It is locked. I check the garage door and back door, then all the windows. I’ll have to change the locks on the doors. I should’ve done it earlier, when I found out that Ian had fucked Franny.
I return to the kitchen and read the note again.
Your time is up
. Joe Harris must see this note.
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I ask Joe Harris. I’m in the police station, sitting at his desk. “This is the same thing that happened to Cheryl Mansfield,” I say. “He broke into her house, too. Why aren’t you doing anything?”
There’s a can of Coke on his desk, and he picks it up to take a drink. Even in the air-conditioned office the air is warm, barely circulating. Joe’s face is flushed, his shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. When he sets down the can, he says, “Give me the note.”
I get it out of my purse. “Don’t you think it’s strange I’m being harassed the same way she was, and both of us had the same boyfriend? Don’t you think it’s strange Ian knew Franny and Cheryl, and they both wound up dead?”
The phone at his desk rings and he picks it up. While he’s talking, I glance around the room. It seems unusually quiet today, but I suppose it’s because of the weather. The summer heat in Davis is mean, today’s temperature rising to 109, enervating even the sturdiest of people. A woman in uniform walks by, dropping a manila folder on Joe’s desk. He hangs up the phone and stands. “I’ve gotta get going,” he says, and walks out of the office and down a corridor.
I follow him, irked at my summary dismissal. “So there’s nothing else you’re going to do?” I say.
Outside, the heat hits us as if we’d opened an oven door. Joe gets in his car and starts the engine. “It would be a good idea for you to stay with a friend for a while,” he says. “Just until we find out who’s harassing you. Can you do that for me?”
I nod. “What about Ian?” I say. “What’re you going to do about him?”
He puts the car in reverse, says, “Stay out of this, Nora,” and drives down F Street.
I cross the street to my car. The sky is clear blue, the sun scorching—you would never guess it’s September. A street vendor in plaid shorts and a tank top, selling flowers, sits on an overturned bucket beneath a white umbrella. She sips water from a plastic bottle, her hair hanging limply, her shoulders slouched. I get in my car and drive across town, wondering who I’ll stay with. Probably Maisie.
When I get home, I check the mailbox: another envelope without a return address. I close my eyes. My chest feels knotted up, tight and tense. I know what’s in the envelope. A hot breeze washes over me, whipping my black hair across my eyes. I take the letter inside the house and open it. “I’m coming for you,” it says, written in the same manner as the others, on a white sheet of paper with the letters clipped from a magazine. I notice I am chewing my thumbnail, then I notice how quiet the house seems, the silence unsettling. I check the front door to make sure it’s locked. Then I check the other doors and all the windows. I go back to the kitchen table and pick up the letter, read it once more, then read it again.
I’m coming for you
.
The air conditioner clicks on softly, but the noise sounds ominous to my sensitive ears. I go to the bedroom and get a suitcase from the closet. I throw in a few dresses, some shorts and tops, underwear. I get my toothbrush, toothpaste, look around for the new package of dental floss I’d just bought. I get angry as I pack, being driven out of my own home. Ian should be the one who’s inconvenienced, not me. I fling a nightgown into the suitcase, infuriated that someone can wield so much negative power over another.
I’m coming for you
. How dare he intimidate me! I want to do something, to take some action myself, fight back any way that I can. I don’t want to move in with Maisie, just roll over and give in.
I walk into the kitchen and see my car keys lying on the counter where I’d tossed them. On the key chain, I carry my three-inch canister of Mace, my car and house keys, and the key to Ian’s condo. I still haven’t returned his key. An idea surfaces—for something I should’ve done before.
On the pretense of a friendly chat, I call the Bee and speak to Maisie. She thinks I’m crazy—suspecting Ian of murder—but she’s glad to hear from me and proceeds to gossip for a while. I feign interest. Finally, after I make an offhand inquiry, she tells me Ian is on assignment in San Francisco for the day. I hang up, drive to Longs Drug Store to buy a package of latex disposable gloves, then get on the freeway and drive to Sacramento.
I’m coming for you
. The words resound in my mind like plangent echoes bouncing in a canyon. I park down the street from Ian’s condo, under the shade of a sycamore. In the distance, I hear a car honking, the whine of an ambulance, the smooth whispering of a light-rail train running along its track.
I’m coming for you.
I open the package of disposable gloves. My fingerprints, undoubtedly, are in Ian’s condo from my last visit, but if I find any evidence that he killed Franny, I don’t want any fingerprints on it other than his own. I stuff two gloves in my pocket, then get out of the car.
Crossing the street, I notice a handyman on top of a ladder, cleaning out gutters on the east side of the condo. A gray sedan pulls into the common parking area. A garage door, activated by remote control, slides open and the sedan disappears inside, the door shutting behind it. I insert the key into Ian’s front door, half expecting it not to work. But it slides in easily, and when I turn the key the door unlocks. I push it open and wait, leaning forward slightly, listening for any noises, making sure Ian isn’t home. I remove the key from the lock. I feel like a felon, breaking and entering, and my heart beats fast. I try to calm myself. Technically, I haven’t broken in, and can I really be a felon if I have a key?
